The Great Un-Escape
by Shadowcatxx
Summary: AU. In German-occupied France, Francis Bonnefoi just wants to avoid being shot by the Germans. However, his café is suddenly turned upside-down when an Englishman decides to use it to hide two Allied pilots and a Chinese fugitive. Add the Gestapo, a Russian spy, a stolen portrait, some cross-dressing, and a bit of romance and it's a party! Too bad no one speaks the same language ;)
1. The British Are Coming

**DISCLAIMER:** **Hetalia: Axis Powers** **– Hidekaz Himaruya**

 **AND 'Allo 'Allo! – David Croft & Jeremy Lloyd**

 **THE GREAT UN-ESCAPE**

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Please excuse the incredibly historically-inaccurate use of modern language (insofar as dialogue and description), as well as my taking liberties with some character names & relationships. To avoid confusion, italics will represent the unknown language in each character's POV.

This story is a Hetalia-spoof based on the BBC sitcom, _'Allo 'Allo!_ (1982–1992).

ALWAYS practise safe sex.

CAST OF CHARACTERS (in order of appearance):

FRANCE — Francis Bonnefoi

GERMANY — Ludwig Beilschmidt

ITALY — Feliciano Vargas

ENGLAND — Arthur Kirkland

AMERICA — Alfred F. Jones

PRUSSIA — Gilbert Beilschmidt

RUSSIA — Ivan Braginsky

CANADA — Matthew Williams

CHINA — Wang Yao

* * *

 **ONE**

 **THE BRITISH ARE COMING**

 **FRENCH**

 **NOUVION, PICARDY**

 **GERMAN-OCCUPIED FRANCE**

In a small town in northern France lived Francis Bonnefoi. He was a twenty-six-year-old chef who had inherited the picturesque _Café Le Fleur-de-lis_ from a distant relative, long dead. It was a beautiful café frequented by locals, tourists, and, more recently, German soldiers. One such patron was young Captain Ludwig Beilschmidt. He was a polite, punctual, self-disciplined man who maintained a strict routine. He arrived at _Le Fleur-de-lis_ every afternoon at twelve-thirty sharp, ordered a mug of dark beer and the only sausage-based entrée on the menu, and—mashing-up his potatoes—proceeded to eat his dinner in total silence. Or, that _had been_ his routine before Feliciano Vargas. Feliciano was a jaunty young Italian serving as Ludwig's adjutant in France. (Despite his flightiness the boy's French was good.) Feliciano's pleasant, sunny nature balanced out Ludwig's steely hardness and made it easier to communicate with the intimidating German, who's French was nonexistent.

"Welcome, Monsieur Capitaine," said Francis cheerfully. "How are you today?"

Ludwig glanced at Feliciano, who was singing softly to himself and not paying attention. " _Dummkopf_!" he snapped in annoyance. " _What did he say_?"

Feliciano blinked. "Oh. _Ciao_ , Signore Bonnefoi. How are you?" he asked in French.

"I'm very well, thank-you. Just praying that his horrible war would come to a swift end."

Feliciano translated for Ludwig, who eyed Francis suspiciously. " _And who's side are you praying will win_?"

"Oh, your side of course, Monsieur Capitaine," Francis lied, smiling. "Should I bring you your usual order?"

" _He wants to know what you would like for dinner today_ ," said Feliciano.

Ludwig said: " _The same thing I order every day_ , _of course_. _He should know that by now. Tell him_."

"Capitano Beilschmidt would like his usual," said Feliciano to Francis.

Francis nodded. Usually he would offer the services of his waitresses to the high-ranking officers that visited the café—in exchange for supplies: butter, sugar, kerosene, etc.—but there was no need to waste his breath on Ludwig. Not as long as he had Feliciano's company. _Oh well_ , _more for me_ , Francis mused, gesturing for his waitresses. His girls were both attractive: Maria was young and curvy; Yvette was tall, dark, and modelesque. "Oh, mes chéries," he whispered, snaking a possessive arm around each girl's waist. "It looks like I have you all to myself today. Just as soon as that boorish German is fed." He lowered his hands and pat each girl's taut bottom before slipping into the kitchen—

—where a green-eyed blonde in a trench-coat was waiting for him, smoking a hand-rolled Dunhill cigarette.

Francis blinked in confusion. He knew everyone who frequented his café, but he did not know this man. He blew-out smoke and lowered his cigarette. " _Alright_ , _ol' chap_?"

"Oh, fuck, an Englishman! What are you doing here?" Francis panicked. Quickly, he closed the kitchen door behind him. "There's a German capitaine in the café right now! If he catches you in here, I'll be shot!"

The Englishman dropped the cigarette butt and stepped on it, crushing it beneath the toe of his boot. " _Don't talk_ , _just listen_ ," he said in an authoritative tone, as if Francis hadn't spoken. " _I'm only going to say this once—_ "

"Pardon?" said Francis, stepping closer.

Urgently, the Englishman repeated: " _I said I'm only going to say this once_! _I am Captain Arthur Kirkland_ _of the British Expeditionary Force_. _For the past few months I've been working with the French Resistance trying to get my men out of Nazi-occupied territory and back to London_. _I had been collaborating with a café owner closer to the boarder_ , _but when the Jerries discovered the plot_ , _he_ , _uh_ , _well..._ _he died very bravely in service to France. Anyway_ , _your café has been chosen as the next rendezvous point for my lads. I need you to hide two pilots until it's safe for them to leave France_ : _two North American lads_ , _good pilots both of them._ _I'll have travel documents ready for them in a fortnight_. _The Resistance has a forger_ , _the best in the business. Can you hide the lads until then_?"

Francis stared at the Englishman. "Coffee or tea?" he offered obliviously. He hadn't understood a single word that Arthur had said aside from his introduction. He gestured to the kettle.

Arthur frowned. " _What_? _No_ , _I don't want tea_! _Do you speak English? Err..._ Parlez-vous Anglais?"

"No," Francis shook his head. " _Do you speak French_?" It was the only sentence in English he knew, besides a few unsavoury pick-up lines and a bit of profanity.

" _No_ ," said Arthur, pinching the bridge of his nose. " _Oh_ , _bloody-hell. I really need your help_ , _frog-eater. I've got to get my lads safely back to London._ "

"You're travelling back to London?" Francis asked.

" _London_ , _yes_! _You understand London_!"

Francis nodded, smiling amicably. _Good_ , he thought, _go back to London before Ludwig finds you here_! He grabbed Arthur's biceps and turned him around toward the door. "Very good, London is that way." He pointed in the general direction, parading the Englishman out. "Out the back door you go. Safe travels. Good luck, you damn idiot."

" _What are you doing_? _Unhand me_ , _you bloody frog-eater_!" Arthur struggled. " _I need your fucking help_!" He dug his heels into the floor and stopped, pushing back against Francis. " _Okay_ , _let's try doing this the hard way then_." He raised his hands and mimed: " _I. Need. You_. _Do you understand_?"

Francis eyed the Englishman skeptically, from the top of his wheat-blonde head to the toes of his shiny black boots. He was about an inch shorter than Francis and slight-figured, but not unattractive. His pale, freckled skin only complimented his shapely face and made his eyes look fiercely green. Cocking his head, Francis considered the offer in a congenial way. "I usually prefer women or boys that are considerably prettier than you," he misunderstood, "but perhaps I can make an acceptation... for a price." Suggestively, he took the Englishman's chin between his thumb and forefinger—

—and got slapped.

" _NO_!" said Arthur sternly. " _You fucking pervert_!" He retreated a step in self-defense and took a therapeutic breath. " _I don't think you understand. Let me try again_."

Eventually, after much back-and-forth and an energetic game of charades, Francis was able to piece together Arthur's message. Two young North American pilots—one American, one Canadian—were being smuggled back to the British headquarters in London to regroup. They had been POWs but had escaped and now sought refuge in _Le Fleur-de-lis_ , which Arthur begged to hide them until forged travel documents could be delivered. Then the boys would leave using two preconceived aliases right under the Germans' noses. It was a gamble, dangerous for everyone involved, but Francis was a patriot. He said: "Vive la France!" and agreed to help.

He shook Arthur's hand. "I'll do anything to end this horrible war quickly, Capitaine. I am at your disposal."

Arthur said: " _Thank-you_. _Francis_ , _was it_? _Your assistance will help to end this dreadful war_."

And they both smiled, having no idea what the other had said.

* * *

 **ENGLISH**

 **ONE DAY LATER**

Arthur sat at a small round table in the corner of the café beside the piano-forte. He tried to look inconspicuous, but he was nervous. There were a lot of German soldiers milling about, including a barrel-chested blonde, whom Francis pointed out as Captain Beilschmidt. Like yesterday and the day before, Ludwig arrived at precisely twelve-thirty and ordered dinner, toting a young Italian behind him, who chatted incessantly like a little terracotta-haired dog. Francis personally took their orders—Feliciano liked to try new things; Ludwig ordered the same entrée every day—and then slipped into the kitchen. He was a good chef and a cloying host. He was flirty and somewhat manipulative. He always seemed to profit regardless of the situation. But that's exactly why Arthur had chosen him for the mission, because Francis Bonnefoi was smart. _He's very adept at self-preservation. Let's see how well he can lie when it's not himself he's preserving_. Arthur cared for both North American pilots and he felt responsible for them, like an older brother.

At half-past one o'clock, Ludwig stood and signalled to Feliciano that they were leaving. The soldiers saluted him as he passed and then went back to self-indulgence. Francis returned to Arthur's table, carrying a tray laden with coffee mugs. Quietly, he said:

" _The first pilot should have arrived by now_. _What's keeping him_?"

Arthur lifted his teacup and placed it on the tray. "No, thank-you. I don't want any coffee," he said as politely as possible. In truth, he was anxious about Alfred's late arrival. _I wonder what's taking him so long_? _Knowing Alfred_ , _he probably went to the wrong bloody café_. He had told both boys to disguise themselves as French grocers to avoid suspicion and to come to the café's back door as grocers would. From his corner vantage, Arthur could see through the window to the back door's stoop, which is what he was watching when Francis tapped his shoulder.

"Yes, what is it?" he said shortly. Then he stopped. The café's bell rang and the whole place went silent.

Alfred was standing in the front entrance wheeling a vegetable cart and wearing a beret and a fake mustache. He looked like a spooked fawn staring back at the curious Germans, who regarded him as if expecting him to perform a skit. Arthur slapped a hand over his eyes, too embarrassed and afraid for Alfred to watch; trying to improvise a plan, when Francis suddenly dashed forward.

" _Mon chéri Renée_! _How long it's been since I've seen you_ , _mon amie_! _Entrez_! _Entrez_ , _s'il vous plaiî_!"

Francis pulled Alfred into a familiar hug and kissed both his cheeks, surprising him. Discretely, he whispered to him in warning and then ushered him through the café's dining-room into the back, leaving the full vegetable cart behind. Quickly, Arthur followed.

"Bloody-hell, Alfred! I said to come in the back door discretely! This," he snatched the boy's flat beret, "is not discrete! I hope you enjoyed that theatrical entrance. You've made a spectacle of yourself in a roomful of Jerries!"

Alfred blushed, but retaliated: "I couldn't find the stupid back door! It's practically invisible from the street!"

"That's the bloody point, you thick-headed git!"

" _Excusez-moi_?" said Francis, intervening. " _Are you Alfred Jones_? _I've been expecting you_ , _though not quite in that fashion_." He gestured to Alfred's disguise.

Alfred blinked, then looked to Arthur for guidance. "What did he say? Why is he pointing at me?"

Arthur shrugged. "I think he wants your hat, probably in payment for rescuing you. Bloody French crook."

"Oh, okay." Alfred nodded. Arthur handed Francis the beret.

Francis took it, looking confused. " _Err... merci_ ," he said, as if receiving a gift.

"Anyway, now that I'm here," Alfred continued, "I'm starving! Do you have anything descent to eat? It's been hours since I've eaten anything, and days since I've eaten anything resembling food. Well, do you? I. Am. Hungry," he said slowly, trying to communicate his request. Then he mimed: "Food—?" and rubbed his stomach.

Francis blinked. " _Are you feeling ill_? _Do you have a stomach ache or something_? _I have medicine for that_."

"What's he saying?" Alfred repeated.

Arthur sighed, feeling exhausted. "I have no fucking clue. Just nod and accept whatever he gives you, it won't be for long. Hopefully those documents will arrive on-time, but until then I don't want to risk offending him. There's nowhere else for you and Matthew to go that's safe."

"This place is _safe_? It's crawling with fucking Krauts!"

"It's high-traffic," Arthur admitted, "but it's safer than anywhere else, I promise. Francis seems to be on good terms with the Jerries. You'll just have to stay hidden for a while. I know it'll be difficult for you," he acknowledged, placing a hand on Alfred's shoulder in mock-sympathy, "but I really, _really_ need you to stay here and not do anything stupid for a few days."

Alfred opened his mouth to reply, but stopped when Francis returned. He had been fishing inside a cupboard in the pantry and was now holding a stout brown bottle and a spoon. He handed both to Alfred and then patted his wheat-blonde head fraternally. Alfred said: "Err... thanks, I think. Is this food?" he asked Arthur, looking discouraged.

Arthur rolled his eyes. "No, you git. That's tonic."

It was going to be a _very_ long fortnight, indeed.

* * *

 **GERMAN**

Ludwig sat in his big office at the German's temporary headquarters, located at city hall. He was studying a beautifully artistic—and, _ahem_ , somewhat erotic—portrait of a naked figure writhing in sweaty climax. It was worth more than a captain's retirement pension if sold, but Ludwig wasn't planning to sell it. He was planning to return it to the relatives of its rightful owner. He had it on good authority that it had been stolen by the French two generations ago from an Italian artist, who just happened to be Feliciano's grandfather. Grandpa Roma, he had called himself. The portrait—whoever the subject might have been; Ludwig had not asked—was the family's most prized possession. That, and a secret generations-old pasta recipe. (The Italians had very odd traditions and priorities in Ludwig's thinking.) But the German captain felt obligated to return the portrait to the family of his ( _cough_ lover _cough_. I mean, err...) adjutant.

Just then, Feliciano hurried in. "Germany! Germany!" he cried in panic. "An officer from the Gestapo is here! He looks really scary, like a red-eyed demon!"

"Uh, red-eyed?" Ludwig repeated in concern. He only knew one red-eyed German. "That's my older brother, Gilbert. Quick, help me hide the portrait!" he said, wrapping it in brown-paper.

Gilbert loved Ludwig, of course, but he took his job as secret-police very seriously and he was very good at it. If he found out that Ludwig was trying to smuggle a priceless article out of German-occupied territory, he would have no choice but to report the crime; charge Ludwig with stealing and disobedience; and potentially shoot him dead as an example to discourage disobedience. It was just protocol. There was nothing personal about his only living-relative shooting him dead, of course. In such unstable times, order must be maintained.

As Ludwig stuffed the portrait into the fireplace grate, Feliciano flittered:

"Oh, Germany! What do I do? I don't want to die—I don't want to die!"

"Shut up, dummkopf!" Ludwig slapped a hand over Feliciano's mouth. He could feel the boy's nerves (and his exceptionally soft, sun-kissed skin). "You're not going to die, not yet anyway. Just keep your big, loud mouth shut and follow my lead." Slowly, he released Feliciano and gestured to the door. The Italian opened it.

"Little brother!" said Gilbert, striding in. His marching gait was practised, short and fast. His black uniform, emblazoned with the Geheime Staatspolizei insignia and the letters SD in silver, was pristine and freshly-pressed. The Iron Cross at his throat was proud and carefully polished to shine. Doubtless, he looked intimidating: an exceptionally tall, red-eyed albino. Yet he was grinning like a satisfied tomcat. After the customary greetings and salutes, he said: "You look tired, brother. Aren't you sleeping well? There's nothing to worry about. We're winning the war, after all."

"Yes, I'm fine. I'm just, err... busy." He glanced at Feliciano in accusation. (The boy flopped like a fish out of water in bed and slept stark-naked. It was distracting and annoyed Ludwig, who needed peace and quiet to sleep.)

Gilbert blinked. "Who's this?" he asked, pointing a gloved finger at Feliciano. The Italian cowered and yipped in fear when addressed. He held himself as straight and tall as possible and didn't make eye-contact, which disturbed the perceptive Gestapo officer. Gilbert looked keenly between Ludwig and Feliciano, reading the tension and anxiety. Suspiciously, he said: "He's young. What's his rank? Is he French?"

"Italian," Ludwig replied. "Feliciano Vargas is serving as my adjutant."

"Oh, that's right. You don't speak French, do you, brother?" said Gilbert smugly, relaxing. The cocky Gestapo officer spoke—heavily accented and very broken—French and considered himself something of a linguist because of it. ("I'm so awesome!") "Well, whatever," he ignored Feliciano. To Ludwig, he said: "There's something that I need you to do for me, Ludwig. It's a sensitive subject, very secretive. I need you to track down a specific article for me that's gone missing from the art gallery, a priceless Italian portrait. You see I've been asked personally by the Führer—through an assistant—to send it on to Berlin," he said proudly, as if the delivery of profane portraits was a task reserved for the noblest of gentlemen. "I need it within a fortnight, otherwise I'll have to investigate the entire town and the person found in possession of the portrait will be publicaly executed. It's just so time-consuming," he sighed, "and my time is valuable. If you find it for me, I can guarantee your promotion. But if not then you'll be investigated too. It's such an inconvenience, I know. I can't return to Berlin until it's found though, so I'll be staying here in Nouvion until I retrieve it or shoot the thief. I'll be back soon to see what you have uncovered. The men have told me about a little restaurant called _Café Le Fleur-de-lis_ , which has excellent... _services_." He grinned wickedly. "I'll meet you there tomorrow for dinner.

"Auf wiedersehen!"

* * *

 **FRENCH**

Francis was carrying several bottles of cognac down to the cellar—it was a favourite among his French patrons—when he heard two voices speaking English. His two houseguests were arguing indiscreetly in frustration.

" _I can't sleep in a fucking cupboard_ , _it's too small_!" Alfred complained.

" _Well_ , _you can't bloody well be walking around upstairs. The Jerries think you're a grocer_ , _remember_? _If they become suspicious_ , _if they hear your bloody Yankee accent_ , _you'll be in danger_ , _Alfred_. _They'll shoot you_!"

" _But Artie_ —"

" _Don't call me that_ ," Arthur chastised. " _It's Captain Kirkland when we're in uniform_."

" _Yeah_ , _but right now we're_ _not_ _in uniform._ _C'mon_ , _Art-ie_!" Alfred whined, teasing Arthur's concern. They stood nearly chest-to-chest, closer than what professionalism deemed appropriate; it was intimate. The big American stared down at the freckled Englishman, cornflower-blue eyes smiling condescendingly into Lincoln-green. Francis watched curiously as the boy placed a hand affectionately atop Arthur's head, like siblings playing, but Arthur slapped at him in denial. It was nervousness not violence that made him do it, and he seemed surprised by his own action, but Alfred did not. In fact, he cocked his wheat-blonde head as if he had been expecting it. Sighing in defeat, he stretched his sculpted arms upward, his shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow, and folded them lazily behind his head. It annoyed the testy English captain.

" _Stop that_ , _Alfred_. _This is serious_. _I won't risk you getting found out because of stupidity_ , _they'll shoot you_!" he repeated, betraying fear. " _I've brought you and Matthew here to protect you_. _I'm_ , _well I... I'm rather fond of you both_ ," he admitted, sulkily avoiding eye-contact. It seemed like a difficult thing for him to admit face-to-face. " _I don't want to lose either of you_ , _so please don't gamble with your life_. _It means too much to me._ "

Alfred's eyes softened. Francis couldn't understand their words, of course, but he recognized the worry in the Englishman's tone. It was a specific kind of worry reserved for blood-relatives and best-friends, people you considered family; people you would do anything to protect.

Francis descended the warped concrete steps and entered the cellar, surprising the two Anglophones, who hastily stepped apart. He stocked the cellar shelves with cognac, checked his stores (which were getting low), and then turned and faced his guests. He had reservations about hiding Alfred—the entitled, loud-mouthed American wasn't at all subtle; his presence put Francis and the entire café at risk—and now was as good a time as any to address them. He said:

"You can't stay here in the cellar. My stores get searched regularly by soldiers for provisions. You can't sleep in the cupboard, Alfred."

" _Oh_ , _he's talking to me_ ," Alfred said, recognizing his name.

" _Perhaps he's offering you a drink_?" Arthur guessed. He pointed to the cognac.

Francis said: "No, you can't have that. It's expensive, it's only for paying customers. If I catch either of you stealing from my stores then you can forget about my help. I'll throw you out," he warned, pointing a finger between them. "This is my livelihood here. It's all I've got left to sell," he emphasized, trying to make them understand.

They blinked. Francis stared impatiently, and then repeated himself louder (because that was the instinctive thing to do when someone didn't understand: speak louder).

After fifteen tedious minutes of gesturing and breaking simple sentences down by syllable, they understood each other. Francis said: "You can't stay in the cellar, Alfred. The only place I can put you is in the loft above the café. The only problem is, well... it's already being occupied."

Francis had been hoping to avoid revealing the identity of his other uninvited guest, but the loft was the only place the Germans didn't search. He led Arthur and Alfred upstairs, past the café's dining-room and into the scullery. He climbed onto a three-legged stool and pulled open a trapdoor on the ceiling, from which an old rope-ladder swung down. He climbed it, knocking on the floor above as he poked his head into the small loft. "Ivan?" he called, searching the dark. From the corner, a low grunt answered him. "This way," he said to the Anglophones below. They climbed up and Francis lit a lantern by the trapdoor. It was a low-ceilinged and under-furnished space. There was a bureau and a single-bed. The bed was piled with blankets, hiding the figure underneath; his features, not his size. The Russian was a big, tall, muscular man—even bigger than Alfred—who had a temperamental attitude and a distaste for French wine. The only mutual word that he and Francis spoke was _vodka_. "Hello, Ivan," Francis greeted, peering down at him. Ivan shifted away from the light.

" _What do you want_?" he grumbled in low-voiced Russian.

Francis ignored him. He faced Arthur and Alfred, and explained: "This is Ivan Braginsky,"—he pointed—"an NKVD agent who was stationed in Paris when the Germans invaded. He managed to escape capture, but was badly injured, shot in the stomach. When he reached the rendezvous point he found all of his comrades dead. I found him half-dead on my doorstep about a month ago and brought him here to recover. I didn't think he would last the night, to be honest, but he's very resilient. His condition is stable now, and as long as the Germans don't discover him here, I think he'll live. I'm sure that you two will, uh... get along just fine. Ivan?" he repeated, poking the Russian's blanketed shoulder. "Say hello to your new roommate, Alfred Jones."

Upon hearing his name, Alfred stepped forward. Ivan's face was half-covered, but his pale eyes stared at the American teenager, scrutinizing him from head to toe. Ivan looked weak. Dark shadows of fatigue circled his eyes and he was sickly-pale. He looked tired, but, as Francis had described, resilient.

Alfred said: " _Hello_."

Ivan exhaled and closed his eyes, uninterested.

"He doesn't speak English, or French, or anything except for Russian," Francis explained inconsequentially. "But I'm sure you'll be fine. Anyway," he gestured to the bureau, "there are blankets and pillows in the bottom drawer, so you can make yourself a bed on the floor, Alfred."

There was no way to misinterpret Francis' implication this time.

" _I'm sleeping on the floor_ , _aren't I_?" Alfred asked Arthur regretfully. The Englishman nodded; Alfred sighed in resignation. " _Well_ , _at least it's not a foxhole. Or a cupboard._ "

* * *

 **TWO DAYS LATER**

Francis was helping Alfred insulate his bed on the loft's floor when Yvette's voice called from the scullery. "Monsieur Bonnefoi, there is someone knocking at the backdoor. I don't recognize him, but he's a really cute young boy. He looks like a grocer, should I let him in?"

"No, I'll go!" said Francis, hurrying down the rope-ladder. _It must be the Canadian pilot_. He had completely forgotten that the second pilot was supposed to arrive that day. "Stay up there," he called to Arthur and Alfred, but—(intentionally) misunderstanding—they followed him.

The boy waiting anxiously on the doorstep was young and looked younger for nerves and malnourishment. He was wearing a hooded coat, but pulled it down when Francis invited him inside. It revealed pale-blonde curls that were frizzy from the rain. Beneath his coat he was discretely dressed as a grocer as planned. "Monsieur Bonnefoi?" he asked hopefully. Francis nodded. The boy sighed in relief and extended a cold, winter-white hand. In flawless French, he said: "I'm Matthew Williams of the RCAF, enchanté."

"Oh, you speak French! That's wonderful, chéri!" Overjoyed, Francis took the boy's shoulders and pulled him into a grateful embrace, kissing both his rosy cheeks in delight. _Finally_ _someone whom I can communicate with_! _Oh_! _What a lovely_ , _polite boy_ , _and his accent is almost native_! "It's wonderful to meet you, Mathieu!"

" _Stop that_ , _you dodgy pervert_ ," Arthur interrupted. He grabbed Francis' shoulder and pulled him off of the stunned Canadian pilot. " _Don't touch my—I mean_ , _Matthew. Alright_ , _lad_? _You look fit_ , _all things considered_." His Lincoln-green eyes swept over the boy, searching him for signs of mistreatment. " _Any news from the front_?"

Before Matthew could reply, Alfred pulled him into a bone-crushing hug. " _Hey_ , _Mattie_! _It's good to see you_ , _I'm glad you're okay_!"

" _Yeah_ , _me too. It's really good to see you_ , _Al._ " Matthew held Alfred at arm's length, violet eyes surveying the American from head to toe, studying his disguise. (Alfred hadn't changed his clothes because he had nothing else to wear.) Suppressing laughter, Matthew asked: " _What on earth are you wearing_?"

Alfred dodged the question, muttering noncommittally in embarrassment as he released Matthew.

Arthur rolled his eyes. " _Thank God you're here_ , _Matthew_ ," he said gratefully. _I should've sent for you first. I forgot that you speak Frog._ _Could you please explain the situation to this bloody wanker_?" He gestured at Francis, who frowned in confusion. " _I've got a headache from trying to talk to him_."

Matthew nodded. " _Yes sir_ , _Captain_. Excuse me, Monsieur Bonnefoi?"

"Francis, chéri. Please call me Francis," Francis smiled.

Matthew repeated Arthur's plan to Francis, detailing aspects that the Frenchman had only guessed. The boy was an apt translator. He was accommodating and receptive to Arthur's orders and Francis' questions. He was patient and soft-spoken. Compared to Alfred—his lively North American counterpart—the Canadian was shy. Finally, once all parties had been briefed on the mission and all complaints had been dealt with (crushed by Arthur's logic and self-entitlement), Alfred said:

" _I'm glad you're here_ , _Matt_ , _but where are you going to sleep_?" He glanced at Francis. " _There's not enough room in the loft for three people_. _There's barely enough room for two_ ," he added, begrudged by his new roommate. " _Ask him if there's anywhere else I can sleep_ , _too_ , _my boys need space_!" he said, grabbing his crotch in example.

" _Alfred_ , _don't be crude_ ," Arthur chastised, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. " _You've already made a spectacle of yourself. Matthew_ , _please ask the frog-eater where you can sleep_. _And ask him where I can set-up the radio. It needs to be somewhere above ground_ , _preferably somewhere high._ _I wonder if we can use the loft_?"

" _Oh_! _And ask about food_! _Like_ , _what's for supper tonight_?" Alfred added. " _I'm sick of onion soup_."

"Mathieu, chéri," said Francis when Matthew had finished. He inhaled deeply, trying to suppress forty-eight hours of stress and frustration, but he failed. In a cloying tone full of false kindness, he said: "Please tell that arrogant English-dog that I run a café and not a fucking hotel. He can use the loft for his radio, but I won't take responsibility if the Germans find it, understand? I already have enough to worry about because of him. And please remind him that it wasn't my idea to smuggle airmen—no offense. I'm doing this for France, and if Arthur Kirkland has a problem with me, or the accommodations, or anything else in my café, then he's more than welcome to shove them right up his—"

" _Mister Bonnefoi regrets that his café is underequipped to house boarders_ ," Matthew mistranslated politely. " _He_ , _err..._ _regrets the inconvenience and conveys his deepest apologies. He hopes that we can come to a mutually beneficial agreement for the sake of the cause. We all fight for the same side_ , _after all. We're the Allies._ "

"Yes, I guess we are," Francis begrudgingly agreed when Matthew repeated the speech in French, but from Arthur's perspective. "But Alfred must understand that he cannot come downstairs unless the café is empty. If the Germans recognize him or try to talk to him then that'll be the end of us all. Since you haven't made a fool of yourself and speak fluent French, Mathieu, I'll pass you off as my young cousin from Nancy. You'll make a perfect Nancy boy." (Alfred snorted; Matthew frowned.) "You'll work as a waiter and sleep in the boudoir off my bedroom. I only ask that you don't disturb my girls," he added. "They often use that dressing-room for, err... private audiences with German soldiers. Don't worry, Yvette and Maria are true patriots. They'll hide you and Alfred if I tell them that you're working for the Résistance Française."

" _Well_ , _I'm not happy about it_ , _but I suppose it's a compromise_ ," said Arthur reluctantly. " _But I don't like the idea of parading you in front of the Jerries_ , _Matthew_ , _or keeping Alfred locked-up with that Russian bloke. Bloody-hell_ , _I just want this war to be over_."

Francis nodded. "Can you be a waiter, chéri?"

"Well, I guess so." Matthew shrugged. "I'll do my best, Monsieur. I've only ever been a pilot, but... how hard could waiting tables be?"

* * *

Unexpectedly hard, as Matthew soon discovered. Especially for someone as shy and mild-mannered as he was, whose talents didn't include flirting (which is what the French wanted), or punctuality (which is what the Germans wanted). He found himself being talked about in both languages and, despite his time overseas, he wasn't desensitized to either culture's mannerisms. In trying to keep the patrons sated, he found himself wishing that he was back in the cockpit of his plane flying dangerous air-raid missions over enemy territory. At least he knew he could do that. He knew that he was _good_ at that. But Francis dismissed his fears and insisted that he was doing fine as a waiter, despite his nerves. "It just adds to your coy charm, chéri," he said, patting Matthew's cheek; retying his apron strings. "Stop worrying, you'll draw unwanted attention to yourself. Look, there's Capitaine Beilschmidt and Feliciano now. Ludwig is a regular and rather amiable for a German officer. He's an easy customer," he explained, walking Matthew forward, handing him a notepad and pencil. "Don't be anxious, chéri. He orders the same thing every day, you'll be just fine—"

Francis stopped. A black-coated albino had walked in behind Ludwig and was surveying the café skeptically.

"Francis!" Matthew whispered, recognizing the Geheime Staatspolizei insignia. "That man's a member of the Gestapo! What should I do?"

"Just wait here. Make yourself look busy," he said, trading the notepad for a floral teacloth. Then he walked forward.

"Welcome, Monsieur Capitaine! You're very early today," he smiled, eyeing Ludwig's pale-faced comrade. He waited for an introduction, but received none. "Please make yourselves comfortable," he continued, feeling the bite of tension. "Can I get you something to drink?" He addressed the question to Feliciano, who always translated, however, it was the Gestapo officer who replied in halting French:

"Beer. And, err..." He snapped his fingers, searching for the French translation: "Sausage. _Is this the owner_ , _Herr Bonnefoi_?" he asked Ludwig in German. " _He looks very suspicious. Then again_ , _he_ is _a Frenchman_." His wine-red eyes stared critically at Francis, scanning him from head-to-toe. Then he leant back and folded his arms in front of him in an intimidating fashion, showing his youth (twenty-five, or twenty-six—? It was hard to gauge by his looks), and grinning smugly, as if pleased by the café's reaction to his daunting presence. He seemed to enjoy toying with the respect—fear—that his position demanded.

Francis inclined his head. "I'm at your service, Monsieur. I'll get you a menu right away."

Hastily he returned to the bar, and said: "Mathieu, I think you'll be okay. Be polite and give him whatever he wants without delay. I don't need trouble with the fucking Gestapo, especially not now that I'm playing host to the Résistance Française. Oh! Mon Dieu!"

Out of habit, Matthew almost saluted, but he clumsily caught himself and nodded instead. "Yes, Monsieur."

* * *

 **GERMAN**

Gilbert cracked his knuckles and grinned. He felt powerful, like a Kaiser upon his throne. "These French peasants fear us, Lud. And they should. We're winning the war, after all. Their future belongs to us," he said arrogantly. In example, he snapped his fingers for another round of beer and the waitress brought it immediately. He called for a jaunty piano medley and the pianist played. He yelled to the German soldiers, ordering them into compliance, and they all saluted and called back uproariously and without hesitance. Gilbert was the most powerful man in the café—in Nouvion—and he was enjoying it, lording his position over everyone who feared him. He could have absolutely anything he wanted; he could take absolutely anything he desired. Grinning in self-assuredness, he glanced up at the approaching waiter—

—and completely froze.

" _Bonjour_ ," said the violet-eyed boy in a soft, shy voice, delivering three laminated menus. He refilled each of the water glasses as Feliciano surveyed the specials. Ludwig didn't even bother opening his menu. And Gilbert... Well, the all-powerful Gestapo officer had completely forgotten how to speak. His brain wouldn't tell his mouth what to say, leaving him tongue-tied as he gaped at the waiter. He felt suddenly nervous, which was an entirely new sensation that he wasn't particularly fond of. When the boy looked at him, ready to take his order, his heart fluttered but no coherent words came out. It was embarrassing but went unnoticed. The boy—his nametag read _Mathieu_ —must have assumed that Gilbert didn't speak French, which was untrue.

"Who was that?" Gilbert asked, watching Matthew's retreat.

"Hmm, I don't know. He's new," said Ludwig suspiciously. "I haven't seen him here before."

"He's, err... pretty good-looking for a boy. I mean, you know... he's got violet eyes, that's unusual."

Ludwig cocked an eyebrow in disbelief. The idea of angular, red-eyed Gilbert describing anyone else's looks as _unusual_ was rather ironic. "Yes, he's attractive, I guess. But he's awfully pale—"

Ludwig stopped mid-sentence and glanced apologetically at Gilbert, but the elder Beilschmidt was distracted. _Captivated_ was a better word. He followed Matthew's movements like a schoolboy spying on his crush, too nervous to speak to him face-to-face. Reading his brother's expression, Ludwig leaned forward and said: "Don't waste your time, brother. He's one of Bonnefoi's wait-staff, they'll fuck anyone for supplies. If he's anything like the waitresses, he'll sell himself cheap to anyone with a bit of cash. You could probably have him all night for a chocolate bar," he criticized.

Gilbert, however, perked-up in intrigue. "Oh, really?"

He watched Matthew, who was talking to Francis behind the bar. Then he glanced around the crowded café, counting the bodies in green uniforms. Enviously, he hated the thought of anyone else touching the boy, who looked so sweet and innocent. _What a gorgeous smile_. _I wish he'd smile at me_. _Only me._

"It is odd," Ludwig mused, interrupting Gilbert's fantasy, "that Bonnefoi would hire a new waiter now, so late in the year. His supplies must be near empty." Except for what Ludwig provided him with, but he wouldn't tell Gilbert that. "Most of his other employees have fled the countryside. I wonder who that boy is to Bonnefoi that he would take him in so suddenly? Could he be a spy?"

"No!" Gilbert burst defensively. "Just look at him—( _what an angel_!)—he can't be a spy!" Noting the shock on both Ludwig and Feliciano's faces, he blushed. "I mean, uh, he's so young," he added, trying to be logical. "And he's anxious, he draws too much attention to himself. He'd make a horrible spy."

"Yes, perhaps you're right," Ludwig ceded. "But it's still suspicious. I should interrogate him—"

"No, no, I'll do it!" Gilbert knocked his chair back, standing up too fast. "I mean, that's my job. I'm Gestapo. You just sit here and enjoy your dinner, brother. I'll be right back. If he is a spy then I'll get the truth from him, don't worry."

That said, Gilbert stalked purposefully to the bar, feigning confidence and fingering the decadent chocolate bar in his cavernous overcoat pocket. He could feel his heartbeat pound as he approached Matthew, and his mouth went suddenly dry. He lost his voice momentarily, fighting nerves, but cleared his throat and finally managed to blurt:

* * *

 **FRENCH**

From where you, Mathieu? I mean, err... _Fuck_ , _how do you say this in French_?" The Gestapo officer shook his head in frustration, his pale lips working out a jumble of hushed sounds before he found the words he was looking for. _"_ Where are you from? Mathieu, is it?"

Matthew blinked, taken aback by the sudden appearance of the red-eyed German. His words were comically accented, but his tone was firm and demanding. He wasn't a man used to being denied by those he considered a lower status. Frankly, his stark confidence made Matthew nervous. It made him feel like he was being interrogated.

"I'm from Nancy, Monsieur. My name is Mathieu Bonnefoi," he lied as planned, with only a slight tremble in his voice. "Francis is my cousin. I've been sent here to stay with him and to help with the café. It's been rather busy."

 _Now that the Germans have invaded French territory_ , he added silently—spitefully. _If I was still flying_ , _if I hadn't been shot-down_ , _I'd still be fighting_ , _doing what I've been trained to do. I'd be chasing off the Germans_ , _not serving them_!

Matthew was an ace fighter-pilot, after all. He had been trained at the finest flight academy in the Canadian West (financed by the RAF, of course). He had spent hundreds of hours on the ground and in the air learning how to operate advanced military equipment. He had been the top of his class, just as Alfred had been the top of his class at a flight academy in the American Midwest, which is why Arthur had handpicked the two of them to fly such dangerous missions. Alfred and Matthew had been trained to shoot Germans out of the sky—not to serve the Gestapo! Especially not such an intimidating officer as this one. The thing about being a pilot was, you never saw the men you shot down. Matthew had never been face-t0-face with his enemy before, except as a POW, which suddenly drudged-up fear and anxiety. Inadvertently, he eyed the Lugar holstered on the German's belt and swallowed the lump in his throat, while hiding his trembling hands in a teacloth.

 _If I do or say the wrong thing_ , _he'll shoot me._ Matthew hoped his panic didn't show on his face.

"Be polite and give him whatever he wants without delay," Francis had advised.

 _Okay_ , _I can do that_. _I just have to act innocent and dodge his questions. I can do that_. _I have to. Otherwise I put the mission in jeopardy and risk getting us all shot_ : _Al_ , _Arthur_ , _Francis—Oh_ , _fuck_.

Matthew took a deep breath and busied himself behind the bar. Deliberately, he avoided eye-contact with the Gestapo officer, which seemed to displease him. He rested his elbow on the countertop and leaned forward. Matthew tried to act normal, but his heartbeat pounded as he pushed a frothy mug of beer toward him.

"You're really Bonnefoi's cousin from Nancy?" the Gestapo asked stoically.

Matthew swallowed. _Oh God_ , _he knows that I'm lying_! _He's going to shoot me_! "Yes, Monsieur."

"And how old are you?"

"Eighteen, Monsieur."

"Oh. That's nice."

Suddenly, the German relaxed. It happened so abruptly that Matthew was left staring at him in confusion. In fact, if he had been better at reading people, he might have even noted that the Gestapo officer's face was tinged pink. His red-eyed gaze was downcast as he fumbled with something in his overcoat pocket, then glanced up and smiled at the perplexed boy. In secret, he produced a brick of milk-chocolate, which he exchanged for the beer, sliding it back across the countertop.

"Do you like chocolate?" he asked hopefully.

Matthew merely stared. _He actually... believed me_? _He's not going to shoot me_? His relief was so great that a timid chuckle bubbled-up past his lips, shaky and nervous. _Chocolate_? _Is he serious_? It had been a long time since the pilot had tasted anything akin to sweets. "Yes, of course I do," he replied, smiling despite himself. "I love chocolate."

The German smiled, too. "It's yours then," he said. And left.

* * *

 **ENGLISH**

Whoa! Where did you get that, Mattie?" Alfred grabbed the chocolate brick from Matthew's hand and unwrapped the foil. Breaking off a generous piece, he shoved it into his mouth, moaning as he savoured its sweetness. "Mm, yes! _Oh yes_! I love chocolate!"

Matthew glanced at Ivan, who was watching Alfred curiously. "I got it from that Gestapo officer," he replied.

Alfred nearly choked. Arthur whipped around so fast, he bumped into the American. (The loft was so small!). "You _what_?" he snapped in horror. Matthew glanced between he and Alfred, who was staring at the foil-wrapped treat as if it was poisoned. Arthur scrutinized Matthew. "That Jerry just gave you a brick of chocolate for nothing? He didn't ask you for anything, or suggest anything, err... improper? He didn't want to take you anywhere?"

Matthew shrugged, misunderstanding the insinuation. "No. He just asked a few questions about my 'relation' to Francis and then gave me the chocolate before leaving. That's all, really."

Satisfied that he hadn't ingested cyanide, Alfred took the brick from Arthur and bit off another piece. "Well, that was really generous of him," he said, unconcerned. He offered the brick back to Matthew, who took a piece. "You must be a really great waiter, Mattie."

Arthur was about to protest—to warn both boys against the Gestapo's _generosity_ —when Francis' head poked up through the trapdoor.

" _Here_ , _take this_ ," he said, handing Arthur a thin paperback book as he crawled inside. The loft, not intended for five people, forced Matthew up against the wall, Arthur and Francis to stand chest-to-chest, and Alfred to fall onto the single bed with Ivan. ("Uh, sorry," he mumbled in apology. The Russian only grunted and shifted to accommodate Alfred's weight.)

"Oh good, it's the code-book for the radio," said Arthur, inspecting the book. "Cracking stuff, frog-eater. Now I can finally contact the bloody French headquarters to tell them that the boys have arrived and ask about the forger. Help me set-up the radio. Where is it?" he asked, trying to dance around Francis. "Oh, uh—Excuse me, could I please just—Could you move over a tad—Oh, so sorry, Matthew! That was an accident. It's a bit tight in here, you know, and I really need to— _Ouch_!" Trying to escape Francis' touch, he banged his head on the slanted ceiling. "Ah! Bugger me! Fuck, fuck, fuck! Alfred!" he snapped angrily. "Get the bloody radio, would you?"

Awkwardly, Alfred leaned across Ivan's lap and reached for the cubby beneath the headboard. He pulled out a big field radio with a tall antenna and receiver. "Oh, sorry!" he gasped, accidentally hitting Ivan with it. The Russian clenched his teeth in pain and clutched his stomach, glowering at his roommate.

Matthew rescued the radio and set it atop the bureau. He flipped on the switch and lifted the handset. It took a few seconds of crackling dead-air before a fuzzy voice sounded through the speaker, which Alfred held overhead. In heavily accented English, it said:

"'Allo. 'Allo! Can you 'ear me? Ready to receive your message. Over."

Arthur took the receiver. "This is, err... Nighthawk," he said, reading from the code-book that Francis held. "The, uh, chicks have hatched—?" ("Are we supposed to be the chicks?" Alfred whispered to Matthew, who shrugged.) "When will the pussycat arrive? Over."

"Ze pussycat will arrive on Sunday. Over."

"Which day of the week is Sunday in the code-book?" Arthur asked Francis, flipping a page. "Oh, it's Sunday. You know, that's really not very secure."

"We should change it to confuse the enemy," Alfred suggested. "Like, Monday can be Friday; Tuesday can be Saturday; Wednesday can be Sunday; Thursday can be Monday; Friday can be Tuesday; Saturday can be Wednesday; and Sunday can be Frabjous Day!"

Arthur, Francis, Matthew, and Ivan stared silently at him for a moment. Then they all simultaneously said:

"No."

" _Non_."

" _Nyet_."

"Over and out," Arthur finished the transmission. He handed the radio and code-book back to Matthew, who handed it back to Alfred, who stashed it back in the cubby behind Ivan. As Matthew translated the correspondence to Francis, Arthur rubbed his severely bruised head.

"The forger will arrive tomorrow then. Where the hell," he glanced around the crowded loft, "is he going to work? If the Jerries catch him here then he'll be shot. Maybe he can work in the boudoir? But he'll need a believable disguise, otherwise the Jerries will get suspicious of us and we'll _all_ be shot! Oh, bother."

* * *

 **FRENCH**

 **SUNDAY**

 _I've received a message from the French Resistance_ ," Arthur whispered, pulling Francis and Matthew into the pantry. " _When the forger arrives—the pussycat_ " (he rolled his eyes) _—_ " _he'll order a cognac and ask you for a light. You'll tell him that you have no matches and then he'll reveal himself._ " He waited for Matthew to translate. " _He should be here any time now_ _so go and wait at the bar_." He pushed Francis. " _Oh_ , _bollocks_! _That bloody Gestapo officer is back_!"

"Mathieu, you go distract him," said Francis, rearranging the boy's pale locks artfully. "He seems to like you. Or, he doesn't growl at you, at least. Go on, don't be shy!"

" _No_ , _wait—_!" Arthur bit his fist, unable to act as Matthew left.

Francis frowned at the Englishman before taking a position behind the bar. He pretended to converse with Maria as he watched the café door for the forger. Ludwig's regular table was situated beside the front window. He and Feliciano sat snuggly together facing Francis, while Gilbert sat with his back to the bar. Matthew had gotten better at playing waiter since Gilbert's arrival. Despite the boy's dangerous position, he seemed to relax under the Gestapo's indulgent smile. It was deceptively kind-looking and Francis didn't trust it. It worried him, since he felt responsible for both pilots. He didn't like the idea of the Germans getting too close to either boy. Francis was indiscreetly glaring, narrowed-eyed, at the captain's table when, suddenly, the door opened. It revealed a slight, long-haired Chinaman, whose dark, almond-shaped eyes quickly scrutinized the café. When he spotted Francis, he headed deliberately in that direction, but not before Feliciano, who reached the bar first.

" _Ciao_ , Signore Bonnefoi. Do you have a match? Signore Beilschmidt"—he pointed to Gilbert—"needs a light for his cigarette."

Francis inhaled sharply. _Oh_ , _fuck_! _I can't refuse a direct request from the Gestapo_! "Uh, of course," he said accommodatingly, producing a matchbook from a drawer. He shoved it quickly at Feliciano while keeping an eye on the Chinaman, who had just ordered a cognac. _Go_ , _please go_! Francis begged the Italian, but Feliciano hadn't yet left when the Chinaman said:

"Do you have a match?" He eyed Francis intently, conveying a secret. He held an unlit cigarette between two delicate, ink-stained fingers.

Francis glanced anxiously from he to the Italian, and hesitantly said: "Err... no, I don't."

Feliciano blinked. " _Sì_ , you do. You just gave me a matchbook, Signore Bonnefoi. Don't you remember it?" he asked kindly, concerned for Francis' well-being. "Do you need a light?" he asked the bewildered Chinaman. "Here." Before Francis or the Chinaman could refuse, Feliciano struck a match and lit the Chinaman's cigarette with a friendly smile. "Enjoy yourself, friend. _Ciao_!"

Francis sighed. To the Chinaman, he said: "Are you the, uh... pussycat?" The Chinaman stared awkwardly at Francis, which embarrassed him. "Uh, I mean... Oh, for God's sake! Are you the forger?"

"Ach—! Be quiet, fool!" the Chinaman shushed him. "Is there somewhere private we can talk? It's Bonnefoi, right?" Francis escorted the Chinaman—dragged him by his skinny forearm—into the pantry where Arthur was pacing frantically. There, he introduced himself: "My name is Wang Yao," as he shook the English and Frenchman's hands. "I have been recruited by the Résistance Française to forge travel papers for Allied soldiers. You're expecting me, yes?"

His accent was thick and a bit choppy, but his multi-linguistic skills were very practised. He spoke in French, then repeated himself in English.

" _Yes_ , _yes_ , _thank-you_ ," said Arthur, pumping the forger's hand gratefully. Yao extricated himself with barely concealed disdain. Too relieved, the Englishman seemed not to notice. " _We've been anxiously awaiting your arrival. I'm afraid that it's a matter of the utmost urgency_ , _Yao—May I call you Yao_?" he asked. It was difficult to gauge the Chinaman's age: his face was unlined and effeminately attractive, but it was agelessness, not youth. His pretty brown eyes looked archaic. Francis wondered how many secrets lived behind those dark, intelligent pools. " _When can you begin work_?" Arthur asked impatiently. " _The sooner the lads can leave the better_. _They're not safe here_ ," he added, as if any of them were.

"I can start immediately," Yao told Francis. He held a heavy black suitcase. "Just show me where to set-up."

"The boudoir." Francis guided him, pointing. "But before you do, Monsieur Wang, I need you to put on these clothes." He collected a basket from the cupboard and handed it to Yao. The Chinaman looked quickly inside and then frowned, as if he thought they were having a laugh. "Pardon, but it's the only disguise we could think of on such short-notice," Francis admitted. "It'll hide you from the Germans, which is very important. I can't have you walking around the café looking suspicious, you understand. You must appear to have a purpose here."

"And my purpose," said Yao unhappily, "is to pretend to be a small girl?"

Francis shrugged. "I'll tell them that you're my niece—adopted," he added, noting their difference in looks. "The Germans will never suspect that the young girl in my café is actually a fugitive aiding the Résistance. Please—?"

 _Oh my God_! _This was such a stupid idea_! he thought, blaming Alfred. Helplessly, he glanced at Arthur, who was smiling uneasily in an attempt to soothe Yao's scowl. He tried to argue in the way of logic, but failed and ended up looking as embarrassed by the disguise as Francis.

Yao sighed in defeat. "Fine, I'll do it. But if you're going to disguise me as a teenager then why do I have to be a small girl? Why can I not be a small boy instead?"

"Well," said Francis simply, "because you _are_ a small boy."

* * *

 **GERMAN**

I'm disappointed, brother," Gilbert sighed. Habitually he cracked his knuckles, his elbows resting on the tabletop in an ungentlemanly fashion. "I had hoped to have the portrait in my possession by now. I'm eager to return to Berlin. You're sure that your search parties have found nothing?"

"No, nothing at all. It's the strangest thing, isn't it, brother? It's almost as if the portrait simply... vanished." Ludwig took a long swig of dark beer and feigned nonchalance. He exchanged a glance with Feliciano, who flittered nearby. The Italian boy tugged at an errant curl and gnawed at his lower lip nervously, which momentarily distracted Ludwig. ( _My God_ , _he's cute._ _Weird_ , _but so cute._ )

"I guess I have no choice then," said Gilbert, regaining Ludwig's undivided attention. "I've heard disturbing rumours lately that some of our German officers have been stealing priceless artifacts from the French, hording items to sell after the war. It's shameful, don't you think?" Ludwig nodded in agreement. "But if it's true, then I'm sure to uncover the portrait thief. I'll start with your office at Headquarters, Ludwig. That way it won't look like I'm playing favourites," Gilbert decided. "Don't tell the other officers that they're under suspicion though. I want to take them by surprise so they won't have time to hide anything incriminating. When we return to Headquarters this afternoon, I'll start the... the, uh... the investigation..."

Gilbert's words faded as the young, violet-eyed waiter approached, swallowed by incoherent, single-minded thoughts. Ludwig rolled his eyes. _Could you be any less discrete_ , _brother_? he thought in embarrassment. "Close your mouth," he advised.

Gilbert obeyed without tearing his eyes off of the young Frenchman. He stared keenly at the waiter as the boy collected the trio's empty plates and beer mugs. He looked stern and dissatisfied, but Ludwig knew otherwise. Gilbert was head-over-heels infatuated with the shy waiter, whom Ludwig consistently forgot about. He was an attractive boy, certainly, but not very memorable. He had a knack for making himself invisible. Ludwig kept forgetting his name and had to subtly glance at his nametag every time he served them, or simply resort to calling him: "Hey, you!" _Mathieu_ , that was his name, and as far as Ludwig was concerned he was out-of-sight, out-of-mind. His mind, at least. Not out of Gilbert's mind. Gilbert's mind seemed to make room for the boy whenever he got close, pushing everything else (including the ability to speak) heedlessly aside. It was shameful. (And a little bit creepy.)

"Stop that," Ludwig whispered. "I'm embarrassed _for_ you, Gil. Are you even listening to me?" He sighed. _It's like he has blinders on_. _He doesn't notice anything when he's with Mathieu_... Suddenly, a thought struck Ludwig; one that might save his thieving self from German justice. "Gilbert? Gilbert!" he snapped, shaking his brother's shoulder.

Gilbert blinked, tearing his eyes off Matthew's quick retreat. "Huh? What?"

"You know, I think that waiter really likes you," Ludwig lied fluidly. "You should invite him out. I'm sure he'd be impressed if you did. And wouldn't it be nice to, err... spend some time relaxing? You could get to know him better on a personal level. Somewhere that you could be alone with him. I mean, you're right, he's really attractive."

"Really? Do you really think so?" Gilbert asked eagerly. "Do you think he would accept if I asked him out?"

"Yes, of course he would," Ludwig encouraged. "You're the most powerful officer in town, after all, how could he refuse? I know that he has a break after dinner. You should definitely ask him— _now_ —before someone else does," he added, knowing how possessive Gilbert could be.

It worked. Gilbert's wine-red gaze narrowed. "Yeah, you're right. I should do it now. I'm awesome, after all."

"Yes, of course you are," Ludwig agreed. He elbowed Feliciano, who smiled and nodded vigorously. "Mathieu will be flattered."

Ludwig watched Gilbert's blushing face set in eager determination as he stood and followed Matthew to the bar. He waited until the two were engaged in conversation and Gilbert's attention completely focused on the waiter before he said to Feliciano: "Quick, go get the portrait from my office and bring it here, but don't let anyone see you!" He feared for Feliciano and his classic unreliability ( _he has such a short attention span_!), but he didn't have anyone else whom he trusted with his secret. _Please be safe_! he begged as the Italian scurried off. A pornographic portrait—priceless or not—was not worth the cost of Feliciano's life.

 _I really hope this works_. Because if it didn't, then he, Feliciano, and the café's entire staff would all be shot.

* * *

 **ENGLISH**

Whoa! How are you getting this?" Alfred gasped, admiring the bricks of chocolate that Matthew handed to him. "You must be an amazing waiter, Mattie! This is an awesome tip!"

"I guess so." Matthew shrugged sheepishly. "I don't know why he would keep giving me chocolate otherwise. But now he's asked me to go out with him this afternoon, Al, and I... I really don't know why. Do you think I'm being taken in for interrogation? What if he takes me to the German headquarters? If he discovers my true identity, then I'll be executed!"

"Hey, calm down," Alfred soothed, glancing quickly at sleeping Ivan. "It's alright, Mattie. That's probably not going to happen to you. It's probably nothing. I mean, most likely. Maybe he just enjoys your company—?" he offered. Matthew frowned in unlikelihood. Alfred discarded the thought. "Maybe you should tell Artie, he'll know what to do."

"But if I _am_ suspected by the Gestapo, my being here puts the whole operation at risk," Matthew insisted.

"Yeah, uh... that's true." Alfred awkwardly massaged the back of his neck, staring thoughtfully at the floor. "I don't know, Mattie, but you definitely shouldn't go out with him. I mean, he's fucking Gestapo. Can't you just fake sick or something?"

"No, not if he suspects me," said Matthew, covering his face in defeat. "That's as good as a confession. Oh my God. I'm dead, aren't I?"

Alfred placed a tentative hand on Matthew's shoulder and squeezed it fraternally. "No, of course not. It'll be okay. I'm sorry, Matt," he admitted when Matthew peeked up in disbelief, "I don't know what else to tell you. But, you know, that red-eyed Kraut really seems to like you. Maybe it really is just a precaution. Maybe it won't be that bad—?"

"Yeah," Matthew said hopelessly, "and maybe the war will be over by Christmas."

* * *

 **FRENCH**

Slow down, Feliciano! You want me to do _what_?" Francis asked in astonishment.

Feliciano spoke quickly and waved his arms about as he translated for Ludwig. "Capitano Beilschmidt needs you to hide this portrait for him for a while so that his brother of the Gestapo doesn't find it. You'll do it," he frowned, his high-pitched voice deepening in threat, "or else Capitano Beilschmidt will report that you have German military supplies—butter, sugar, kerosene, etc.—in your storage, Signore Bonnefoi."

"But _you_ gave me those supplies!" Francis argued fervently.

" _Yes_ , _but it's my word against yours_ ," said Ludwig smugly.

"It's his word against yours," Feliciano rephrased.

"But—but—but you can't do that! If the Gestapo finds the portrait in my possession, I'll be shot!"

" _Better him than me_ ," said Ludwig.

"Better you than him," said Feliciano.

" _If you don't agree to hide the portrait_ "—Ludwig placed the heavy, gilded frame in Francis' arms—" _it won't be the Gestapo who shoots you_. _I'll do it myself_ , _understand_?"

"Well, it's hard to argue with that, Capitaine," Francis grumbled, shifting the frame's weight. "Fine, I'll do it."

Francis grudgingly lugged the portrait down into the cellar and placed it on a tabletop while he searched for a place to store it. He was rummaging in the cold fireplace when Arthur descended the steps and noticed the packaged portrait. He said something that sounded like a question. He sounded urgent and confused—though Francis thought he always sounded a bit confused. ( _Pft_ , _Englishman._ ) Arthur disliked being left uninformed, that much was clear, but, preoccupied, Francis chose to ignore him. He couldn't understand the Englishman's words anyway. He continued to prepare a hiding place for the portrait when he suddenly heard the crackle of brown-paper.

"Wait! What are you doing?" he panicked, waving in denial as Arthur unwrapped the portrait. "No, don't!"

" _What is this_?" Arthur asked, eyeing it in perplexity. His green eyes regarded Francis curiously. " _Why do you have something like this_ , _frog-eater_?"

Francis hurried to Arthur side, intending to rewrap the priceless Italian artwork, but stopped when he saw it. The figure was flushed, stark-naked, and writhing in blissful climax. Francis blinked, surprised by the erotic subject, and wondering who had posed for it, but more surprised that Ludwig would have such a thing in his possession. At least it was skillfully painted. "That's, err... interesting," he said. He exchanged a skeptical glance with Arthur, whose freckled brow was furrowed.

" _Why do you have this_?" he repeated.

Before Francis could speak in self-defense—Arthur was staring in accusation—Matthew descended the steps.

" _Captain Kirkland_?" he asked. There was a note of urgency in his tone. " _I have to talk to you about—What is that_?" He paused and pointed at the portrait.

" _Nothing_! _It's absolutely nothing_!" said Arthur, blushing. He threw himself in front of the portrait to block it from Matthew's view as Francis hurriedly covered it. " _What is it you need_ , _pet_?"

Matthew explained his predicament to Arthur and Francis, who took turns frowning and interrupting as the boy went back-and-forth in translation.

"I don't like it," said Francis. "I wouldn't trust the Gestapo for all of the wine in France. Gilbert Beilschmidt is secret-police, he's been trained to hunt down enemies like a dog. If he's not planning to interrogate you, then why else would he take you out, Mathieu? If I didn't know better, I'd think that he wanted to—" Francis stopped suddenly. He looked at young Matthew, who stared back through big, long-lashed violet eyes. The boy had lost weight as a POW in Germany, but the colour had since returned to his cheeks and his eyes sparkled. _He really is beautiful_. The Canadian was tall and lean with soft skin as white and flawless as untouched snow. Despite the war, he still maintained the shy innocence of youth, and possessed the sort of kindness that was preyed upon by others. Alfred, too, had a personality flavoured by untouched innocence, ignorant of malicious intent. He believed himself invincible because he had never faced a truly helpless situation before; the fearlessness—and blue-eyed, sunshine beauty—of youth. _They might be ace pilots_ , Francis thought, _but they're both still naive about the world_ ; _about sexual advances. They're both young and beautiful and so_ , _so stupid. And I'm not the only one who's noticed._ Suddenly, he felt fiercely overprotective of the teenagers. "Mathieu," he started diplomatically, "I really don't want—"

" _No. I forbid you to go_ ," said Arthur sternly. " _You're not going anywhere alone with that Gestapo officer._ "

" _But if I don't go_ , _he'll be suspicious_ —"

" _Never-mind_ , _Matthew. Francis will tell the Jerry that you're much too busy to leave work. If he doesn't press the matter_ , _then you're safe._ ( _From interrogation_ , _at least_ ," he muttered unhappily). " _If he does insist that you go with him_ , _well_... _then you'll have to leave_ Le Fleur-de-lis. _It's the only way to protect you and the mission. But hopefully it won't come to that_. _The forger is here now_. _As soon as the documents are ready then you and Alfred will leave together_ _as planned._ "

"Yes," Francis agreed, nodding. "But you don't want to give the Gestapo the wrong idea either. That could be just as dangerous. It might be better if you let Yvette and Maria serve the Germans from now on. I'll find you work in the kitchen, chéri. You'll be safe from the Gestapo's eyes in there."

Francis relaxed as Matthew left. "Thank-you, Monsieur. _Captain_ ," he saluted, grateful to both.

* * *

Francis was about to return to the fireplace, preparing it to hide the portrait, when Arthur said:

" _Thank-you._ "

It took Francis off-guard. The Englishman's voice was soft and—genuine, even! Francis looked at him.

" _Thank-you for everything you've done for them_ ," he said, nodded upstairs to indicate the pilots. " _I'm really grateful for everything you've helped with. I know it hasn't been easy. I know that we've endangered you and your café_ , _but it means a lot to me that those two lads get home safe. And I_ , _well... I appreciate your help. I couldn't do it without you_ , _frog—I mean_ , _Francis."_

"I'm sorry," said Francis kindly. He cocked his ash-blonde head and smiled, feeling unexpectedly tender toward the insufferable Englishman. "I don't understand what you're saying."

Arthur sighed, revealing a tired half-smile. " _You don't have the faintest idea of what I'm saying_ , _do you_?"

"You can keep talking if you want," Francis said (he might have, maybe, liked the sound of the Englishman's voice—when he wasn't yelling or cursing), "but I still can't understand you, chéri."

Arthur stared helplessly at him, then rolled his eyes. " _Oh_ , _never-mind then. I'll just help you hide this gaudy thing_ , _shall I_?"

They un-bricked part of the fireplace and lined it with tea-towels to protect the portrait from damage. It was still lying open on the tabletop. A minute later and it would have been safely hidden, however, it was at that moment, just as Francis was re-wrapping it, that he heard Maria's frantic voice from the kitchen:

"Oh! No, Monsieur! Customers are not permitted to enter the cellar, please wait—"

" _Don't tell me what to do_ , _Fräulein. I'm the Gestapo_ , _I can do whatever the fuck I want_. _And what I want is to speak to Herr Bonnefoi right now_!"

"Oh, shit!" Francis panicked. The cellar door opened and Gilbert's perfectly oiled black boots stomped down the warped steps, his toes already in view. _Oh_ , _shit_! _What do I do_? He looked from the half-covered portrait to Arthur, who had paled in realization. They made eye-contact for a second and then Francis acted. In desperation, he grabbed the front of Arthur's shirt and pulled him into a wet, clumsy French kiss just as Gilbert entered the cellar. Francis felt Arthur tense in reflex, but he refused to release him. He held him as if they were lovers. When he heard Gilbert's gasp of shock, he dropped a hand to Arthur's lower-back and leaned further down, supporting his weight as he pushed him down. He slipped his other hand beneath the Englishman's shirt hem and sucked his slick tongue wantonly as if he didn't know the German was watching; it tasted like bitter-sweet wine. He moaned throatily in—not entirely—feigned pleasure.

" _Ah_! _Fuck_ , _I-I'm sorry_!" said Gilbert's shocked voice, retreating quickly upstairs. The door slammed behind him and it was over in less than fifteen-seconds.

Francis quickly released Arthur, who stumbled back gasping, trying to catch his balance and his breath. He grabbed the tabletop, wide-eyed in disbelief. Francis fully expected to get punched for the stolen kiss, but he didn't. Absently, Arthur touched his fingers to his lips, which were parted. He was breathing hard, nervous. _So am I_ , Francis realized as he blatantly stared back. He had initiated the kiss to distract Gilbert from the portrait, of course, but he hadn't expected to feel anything akin to arousal kissing Arthur. He hadn't expected to enjoy it so much, but he had. He could feel a warm, familiar tension budding in his nether regions; a heated feeling that spread throughout his whole body. He fought the urge to grab the Englishman again. _Uh oh_ , _that's not good_ , he thought, feeling a specific part of his anatomy waken in arousal. _Why now_? _Why him_? he wondered, staring at Arthur, who had somehow become more attractive in the past week. _He didn't look this striking when I first met him_ , _did he_? _But now_ —? Francis let his eyes ravish the young Englishman. He was rather slight-figured, with delicate, freckled features and rich Celtic colouring. He looked flexible, yet durable. Fierce. The fairness of his skin made his eyes look intensely green. They pierced the Frenchman like a storm-tossed sea and Francis swallowed hard, trying not to get swept away by sudden desire.

" _Why_ —?" Arthur asked, then stopped. He knew why, of course. Blushing fiercely, he cleared his throat. " _That was_ , _err... unexpected._ "

"Pardon!" Francis stuttered in defense, but Arthur said:

" _No_ , _no_ , _it's okay_! _I mean_ , _it wasn't_ _bad exactly_. _That is... It was kind of... exciting._ "

"You're not angry with me?" Francis guessed, reading Arthur's tone; his scarlet face. Cautiously he stepped closer, reducing the distance between them. Arthur's eyes strayed from Francis' blue-eyed gaze to his velvety lips and lingered there. Absently, he licked his own. Brazenly, Francis cupped Arthur's cheek and angled the Englishman's face gently upward. "Maybe we should try that again without the Gestapo watching, yes?"

Arthur placed his hands tentatively on Francis' shoulders and leaned closer. They may not have understood each other's words, but the intent of each man's action was crystal-clear.

Softly, Arthur said: " _Yes_."


	2. Arousing Suspicions

**DISCLAIMER:** **Hetalia: Axis Powers** **– Hidekaz Himaruya**

 **AND 'Allo 'Allo! – David Croft & Jeremy Lloyd**

 **THE GREAT UN-ESCAPE**

* * *

 **TWO**

 **AROUSING SUSPICIONS**

Bonjour, dear reader. My name is Francis Bonnefoi and this is the story so far:

My lovely _Café Le Fleur-de-lis_ has been playing host to German soldiers for many months now. (I can hardly refuse them, this being German-occupied France. If I did, I would be shot!) Coincidentally, _Le Fleur-de-lis_ is also secretly hosting the Résistance Française, helping Allied soldiers escape the Germans. Presently in residence are two North American pilots, a Russian spy, and a Chinese fugitive. While the Chinaman—disguised as my adopted niece—forges false identity papers for the pilots, I must maintain a regular routine by serving the Germans. To make matters worse, the German capitaine has threatened to shoot me if I don't hide a priceless Italian portrait that he stole from the Führer. Fortunately, the Gestapo officer in charge of the hunt is too preoccupied trying to woo the Canadian pilot—who is disguised as my waiter—to notice that everyone around him is plotting something or other. The newest development—and most disturbing thing of all—is that I seem to have developed an inconveniently-timed infatuation with the English capitaine, whose connection to the Résistance Française is what started this whole mess. If I get shot, it'll be entirely his fault—

—which is why I'm making the most of his company while I can.

* * *

 **FRENCH**

 _Ah_! _Oh... hmm_ , _oh_ , _nn... a-ah_! _Nn_ , _France—_!"

Francis covered Arthur's mouth with his hand. His breath was hot and moist; his lips were soft. "Quiet down! If anyone hears us, we'll be shot!" But his voice died on a deep-throated moan of pleasure. He bowed his head against Arthur's sweaty, freckled shoulder and pulled the half-naked Englishman closer, deeper. Arthur whined, digging his fingernails into Francis' bare back. The Frenchman's pulsating thrusts were skilled and rhythmic; not too fast, not too slow. He squeezed the other's slick cock as he rolled his hips, penetrating the gasping Englishman, whose slender legs trembled weakly, wrapped around Francis' waist.

" _F-France—_!" he stuttered, eyes squeezed tightly shut. " _I-I— I'm_ , _uh_ — _AH_!~"

Francis' cock released in climax and Arthur's body buckled in reply. Then they both deflated, relaxing against the unstable wooden tabletop, letting the cellar's damp coolness lick the sweat from their flushed skin. "Mon Dieu," Francis panted, buckled over as exhaustion overtook him. He braced his hands on either side of Arthur, who was lying on his back and staring absently at the ceiling beams, his chest heaving.

" _That's not quite what I had in mind_ , _you pervert_ ," he said breathlessly.

Francis, having no idea what the Englishman said, simply kissed his cheek and replied: "You're welcome."

They re-dressed quickly and quietly. Arthur took the liberty of refastening Francis' incorrectly fastened shirt, while Francis combed back Arthur's messy hair. Then they returned to the café together, flushed and bright-eyed, but otherwise inconspicuous. Francis poured a glass of wine, gulped down half the contents, and then handed it to Arthur and continued into the kitchen to check on Matthew. The violet-eyed boy was elbow-deep in greasy dishwater, a scowl on his face as he scrubbed pots and pans with more force than necessary. He glared at Francis when he spotted him, feeling disgruntled.

"I can fly figure-eights, you know. I can do lines, loops, rolls, spins, and hammerheads," he listed, clenching a handful of steel-wool. "I was top of my class at the flying academy, the best aerobatic and combat fighter-pilot in the RCAF. I flew twelve high-risk missions into enemy territory before I got shot down. I was ambushed, shot down, and had to jump to safety from six-hundred feet before the plane crashed. But despite that, I love flying. I mean, I _really_ love flying, Monsieur Bonnefoi. I love being a pilot more than anything in the world. I do _not_ love dishes."

Francis cocked an eyebrow and resisted the urge to applaud in mockery. "How long have you been preparing that speech, Mathieu?"

"Since afternoon-tea," he replied, gesturing to the washtub of dirty dishes. "I'm sorry, Francis. I'm just bored out of my mind back here. I've been scrubbing dishes since noon. I can't imagine how Al must feel locked in the loft." He sighed deeply, already regretting his outburst. "Do you know how long it'll take Yao to forge travel papers for us?"

"No, I don't. But he's working as fast as he can. He had to buy new supplies since his were confiscated by the Gestapo. At least Gilbert only took Yao's suitcase because he thought that it was Ludwig's. It's lucky that Feliciano was there to confirm the mistake. I wish we hadn't had to tell him the truth about Yao though. He's a sweet boy, but he's so flighty. I pray he doesn't reveal us. Hopefully, Yao can finish writing the documents today. They'll dry overnight and be ready by tomorrow. I'm sorry that he's had to commandeer the boudoir, Mathieu. I do feel bad that you're sleeping on the floor now. You look tired."

"Thanks, but I'm fine. I've always had trouble sleeping in strange places anyway, be it a foxhole, a cockpit, or someone else's bed. Don't worry about me, I'll"—he yawned deeply—"be just fine."

" _Francis—Oh_ , _hello Matthew_ ," Arthur greeted cordially, poking his head into the kitchen. " _I've just received word from the French Resistance_. _They're sending instructions for the lads via the radio_. _C'mon_."

Arthur led the trio into the scullery and pulled down the trapdoor and rope-ladder. Francis lit a lantern that had been left below, and climbed into the loft. The butter-yellow light revealed the small, dark space, under-furnished except for a bureau and a small bed, upon which laid two figures—one on top of the other.

"Alfred?" Francis gaped. The boy's wheat-blonde head peeked out from under Ivan, who was straddling him.

" _No_ , _wait_! _It's not what it looks like_!" Alfred panicked. " _Oh_ , _fuck_. _Ivan—get off_!"

" _Alfred_ , _what the bloody-hell are you doing_?"

Alfred pushed against Ivan's broad shoulders, forcing a hiss of pain from the injured Russian. The American flinched in apology. Carefully he crawled out of the bed, letting Ivan lie back into the pillows. He muttered in annoyed Russian, holding his stomach, and rolled over to face the wall, leaving Alfred alone to explain. " _It was an accident_ ," he said, miming the scene. " _Ivan was changing his clothes_ "—he pointed to a pile of discarded clothes on the floor—" _so I decided to get the radio out while he was up_ , _but the receiver got stuck in the cubby and I couldn't pull it out. I tried yanking it_ , _but it's really fucking heavy_! _I didn't know that Ivan was right behind me and I accidentally hit him with it. He kind of just buckled and fell on top of me. That's it_ , _really. But someone should probably check his stitches_ ," he added sheepishly.

" _Alright then_ ," said Arthur suspiciously. " _Where's the radio_? _Because I'm going to need it in_ "—he consulted his wristwatch—" _thirty seconds_! _Bollocks_!"

They didn't waste time trying to pry the radio out of the cubby. Instead, they hastily pulled the bed back from the wall with Ivan still on it and Arthur squeezed into the space provided, head half-buried in the cubby. The antenna stuck out over his shoulder, making him look like a visitor from outer-space. With six seconds to spare they all waited silently to receive the radio transmission:

"' _Allo_. ' _Allo_! _Can you_ ' _ear me_? _Over_."

" _Yes_ , _I can hear you. This is Nighthawk_ , _ready to receive instructions about the chicks. Over_."

" _The albatross flies on the Twelfth Day of Christmas_. _And I repeat_ : _the albatross flies on the Twelfth Day of Christmas_. _Over_."

Francis peered over Matthew's shoulder as the boy hastily flipped through the code-book, searching for the translation. "A British plane is coming to get Al and I at midnight tomorrow," he repeated in French.

Francis pursed his lips thoughtfully. "It'll be very close, but hopefully the false travel papers will be ready by then. I suppose the plane will pick you up in the field behind the railroad tracks. It's the only open-space large enough for a landing. The two of you will have to be waiting there at precisely the right time with a way to signal to the plane without alerting the German sentries. It'll be dangerous, but it'll get you out of France. I'm going to miss having you here, mes chéris," he said, smiling sincerely at the pilots, "but I'm glad that this will all be over tomorrow."

 _Then I'll only have the Italian portrait_ , _the Russian spy_ , _and the Chinese fugitive to get rid of before the Germans find out and shoot me_.

* * *

 **GERMAN**

Gilbert tapped his index-finger on the tabletop irritably. His beer sat untouched in front of him as he stared tensely at the kitchen door, willing it to open, and flinching like a sheep-dog when it did. His shoulders sagged, however, when Maria's ample bosom appeared instead of Matthew. Gilbert sighed. He hadn't seen the waiter for three days, not since Gilbert had asked him out and he had declined on Francis' orders. _Dummkopf Frenchman_! _Doesn't he know who the fuck I am_? If Gilbert Beilschmidt wanted sweet Matthew like take-away then—damn it!—he should have been able to have him. Feeling slighted by Francis' refusal, he had marched down to confront the Frenchman face-to-face and had unexpectedly found him tonsil-deep in a freckled blonde man. He had been so flabbergasted by the homoerotic sight that he had retreated fast, tripping back up the stairs.

 _That was so un-awesome of me_ , he thought, moping like a toddler.

He couldn't help feeling embarrassed about it even now. He was a twenty-six-year-old soldier trained to hunt and kill. The feats he had accomplished would impress even the toughest of men, and yet romance always bewildered him and left him red-faced and unable to speak. He didn't have much practise on the subject. It was hard to get dates when you were an albino Gestapo officer, after all. It's not like he could arrest someone's family and then ask them out to supper. Despite his occupation, Gilbert had never abused his position to force a romantic relationship like so many others did—and he never would.

 _Why does everyone always think I'm the bad-guy_? He sighed unhappily and rested his chin on folded arms. _Dummkopf French cock-block_.

It was late when Gilbert finally gave up hope of seeing Matthew and decided to collect his coat and leave the café. _Where is my fucking coat_? he wondered. Maria had taken it into the coat-check, but she was nowhere to be seen. Nor was Yvette, or Francis. In fact, the café was empty except for a few drunken soldiers, the Frenchman's green-eyed lover, and a small Chinese girl in a lacy red dress, whom the soldiers were eyeing like dessert. _Fine_ , _I'll get it myself_.

Habitually, he touched the Lugar on his belt as he stalked to the coat-check, which was a deep walk-in closet. _If they've lost my coat_ , _I'm going to shoot someone_ , he exaggerated, thinking on how this night could possibly get any worse. He pushed open the closet's door and stepped inside. It was dark, but the café's light shone in faintly, falling on the face of a pretty teenager.

Matthew was fast-asleep, lying on a wooden bench shoved against the wall. It was an unexpected sight. The waiter's pale-blonde head was pillowed on his folded arms and his legs were curled-up. His shoulders were arched defensively as he shivered. The coat-closet was an unheated appendage of the café and the wind was cold.

"Mathieu?" Gilbert said quietly, kneeling down. He swallowed and glanced coyly over-the-shoulder to ensure that no one was watching him, then slowly reached for the defenceless boy. He felt nervous as he did so. He had only ever looked at Matthew, never touched, but he had wanted to since the first time he saw him. Gently, he placed a hand on Matthew's silky head, but the boy didn't wake. He didn't even stir. _You're completely exhausted_ , _aren't you_? _That sleazy Frenchman is working you to the bone_ , _isn't he_? he thought, tenderly brushing back Matthew's curls. The boy's skin had always looked soft and Gilbert was not disappointed as his fingers lingered greedily. _Is this where he makes you sleep_? His red eyes scanned the closet in distaste. It brought to mind French fairytales, like _Cinderella_. _You're so cold_. _If you were mine to take care of_ , _I'd never let you get cold._

Chivalrously, Gilbert collected his long, black coat from the rack and draped it over Matthew. He tucked the boy in, taking especial care not to wake him. He didn't have an excuse for his being there, after all. He froze when the boy mumbled, but relaxed when it became a sigh of sleepy contentment. It was then, as Gilbert leant closer to look at Matthew's face in the dark ( _What_? _That's not creepy_!) that he noticed a smile upon the shapely lips. The secretly soft-hearted Gestapo officer smiled in return and pressed a whispered kiss to the sleeping boy's cheek.

"Gute-nacht, schatz," he said. And then quietly left.

* * *

 **RUSSIAN**

Ivan's side was throbbing painfully. He had examined his bandaged torso and found the linen sticky with blood. _Fuck_ , he had thought, clenching his teeth. The stitches had been damaged when Alfred hit him (an accident, but he was still annoyed with the American), leaving the messy flaps of his half-healed skin open to infection. But he stayed silent. He rolled over and hugged his stomach, trying to keep his blood inside as the radio party received a message from— _Oh_ , _who fucking cares who they're talking to_? Ivan's frustration was budding into short-tempered dislike of this place, of these incompetent people, and of his own helplessness. _If I wasn't injured_ , _I'd leave this fucking place. I'd be halfway back to Russia by now if I hadn't gotten myself ambushed_ , he thought in self-degradation. _I hate it here_! _I hate them_! He clenched his fists angrily. He was a self-sufficient man; he hated relying on others.

When the loft emptied, Ivan tried to rise but failed. "Ah—fuck!" he growled, clutching at his bloody stomach.

" _Hey_ , _are you okay_? _You shouldn't try to move_ , _you'll just make it worse_ ," said the American teenager. He sounded nervous, like he always did when addressing Ivan, but it didn't prevent him from invading Ivan's personal-space. " _Are you bleeding_? _Let me see_ , _maybe I can help—_ "

"No, don't touch me!" Ivan snapped. He felt feral. If he was a dog, he would have showed his teeth. It was the clumsy boy's fault that Ivan was hurting. The throbbing pain in his stomach made his head pound, and he felt hot and sweaty and nauseous as he tried to find a sleeping position that didn't aggravate his injuries. How many times had he been shot? Three. All of them flesh-wounds, none life-threatening, but he still felt sick and—dare he admit it—afraid. Afraid that he would vomit if the boy jostled the bed again.

" _It's okay_ , _I'm just trying to help_ ," Alfred insisted, his voice an uneven blend of nerves and compassion, as if he was trying to soothe a dog he wasn't sure wouldn't bite. Slowly, he reached for Ivan.

"No!" Ivan repeated, but his words died on a groan. Alfred's hand felt good against his sweaty forehead. His fingertips were a little callused, but his golden skin was warm and invitingly soft. His touch chased off Ivan's dizziness and for a moment he closed his eyes and relaxed.

Alfred said: " _You feel really warm. I'm no doctor_ , _but I'm pretty sure you have a fever. That's not good._ " He pulled the blankets down without warning and saw Ivan's bloody bandages. " _Shit_! _Why didn't you say something_ , _you stupid Ruskie_? _Don't move_! _I'll be right back_!"

Ivan watched Alfred descend the rope-ladder, leaving the loft in darkness. "Goddamn Yankee," he grumbled. The boy was so high-energy that he gave Ivan a headache. And yet the instant that Alfred's sun-kissed face left, Ivan felt the darkness close in on him (metaphorically-speaking). He felt lonely. It had been a month since the Frenchman had found him and dragged him here, leaving him alone except to feed him; just waiting for Ivan to die. The first week of lying in this small, dark space had made the Russian feel so claustrophobic. He was unused to crowded spaces and had quickly developed an intense dislike for them. Lying here in pain and sickness, he had wished that he had died on the café's doorstep. At other times, when he was diluted or asleep, he dreamt that he _had_ died and was living in hell.

That had been before Alfred Jones. Since the boy's unexpected arrival, Ivan hadn't felt the bite of loneliness. His body still felt sick, but not heartsick. The boy's presence gave Ivan something to focus on besides his discomfort. Even though Ivan couldn't understand Alfred's words, the American talked to him (sometimes he talked incessantly); he forced Ivan to eat; and he tucked him in so that he slept in relative comfort. _I suppose it's because he has nothing else to do_ , Ivan considered. _That's why he's nursing me._ Even so, it felt nice to have someone fuss over him. He hadn't let anyone take care of him since he was a child in need of his sister's maternal nurturing. Alfred might have been an eighteen-year-old egotist, but—like Ivan's older sister—he seemed to genuinely care for people. _He seems to genuinely care about me_. Though he wouldn't admit it, Ivan was grateful for Alfred, who had never poked fun at the Russian's weakness. That, he decided, would have been the most humiliating thing of all.

 _Of all the people in the world_ , he thought in defeat, _it had to be an American_.

Soon Alfred returned, toting an attractive Chinese girl behind him. " _Yao said that he can re-stitch your_ —"

"Ivan?" Yao gaped in shock.

Ivan stiffened. He would know that high-pitched, accented voice; those almond-brown eyes; that delicately-figured body anywhere, effeminately-dressed or not. Even half-dead, he recognized his long-ago lover, whom he had left without a word of farewell. _Uh oh_ , Ivan thought as Yao marched closer.

In thickly-accented Russian, he said: "What the heck are you doing here? I heard you were in Paris, I thought you were dead!" he snapped in accusation.

"Disappointed that I'm not?" Ivan retaliated curtly.

Alfred frowned. " _Wait a minute_ , _you know him_?" He glanced curiously at Yao. " _How_?"

Yao shifted uncomfortably. " _Just... from a long time ago. It's not important._ "

" _Dude_ , _how many languages do you speak_?"

" _Six_ ," Yao replied impatiently. Then he focused on Ivan. "Why are you here?"

"Why are you here dressed like a girl?" Ivan countered. "I like the colour, though," he confessed, teasing the lacy dress between his blunt fingers. "Communist-red."

Yao slapped his hand. "It's just a stupid disguise. The café is crawling with Germans including the Gestapo, if you haven't noticed. If they find me I'll be executed. If they find you"—his face softened—"you'll be shot. If you haven't died by then, that is," he added, drawing out a sewing-kit. Inside were medical needles of varying sizes, scissors, and a bobbin of black thread. "You haven't changed at all. You're still a reckless ass-hat, Ivan," he chastised, taking a needle.

Ivan rolled his eyes. "And you're still selling lies," he said, eyeing the Chinaman's ink-stained fingers. "Which multinational corporation are you knocking-off now?"

"Prada," Yao replied shamelessly. "You want a handbag, thirty percent off?"

"No."

"Thirty-five percent off?"

"No."

Yao shrugged and carefully threaded a sterilized needle. " _Alfred_ ," he gestured for the boy waiting patiently in the loft corner, as far from the domestic spat as possible. " _I don't have any painkillers so I need you to hold him down while I stitch_ , _okay_?"

" _Uh_ , _hold him down_?" Alfred paled.

" _Oh_ , _don't look so scared_ , _kid._ _I thought you were a soldier_ , _huh_? _It'll be over quickly. And Ivan won't bite_ — _probably. Come here_ ," Yao repeated sternly, like a schoolmaster ordering a student.

Cautiously, the blue-eyed boy climbed onto the single-bed. " _Sorry_ ," he mumbled, pressing down on Ivan's broad shoulders. His head hung over Ivan, wheat-blonde hair framing his face like a lion's mane. So close, Ivan could see the tension in the fine-boned angles of his pretty face. His body was warm, which was nice. Ivan's skin was always cold (sans fever-heat). Despite the fact that Alfred was restraining him, Ivan found the boy's presence comforting. The way he nervously avoided eye-contact with the Russian was oddly endearing. Though, as Yao unwrapped the bloody bandages, Ivan found himself wishing that Alfred _would_ look down at him, wanting to focus on those blue eyes. It was strange, he thought, as Yao sterilized the wound with alcohol—Ivan clenched his teeth and tried not to yell in pain; his body jolted in reflex, but Alfred held him down—to be reunited with his old lover, and yet have his head filled instead with thoughts of the young American.

As Yao stitched, Ivan reached up and clenched Alfred's forearms. " _It's okay_ ," Alfred said. " _You're going to be okay_. _You'll feel better soon_ , _I promise._ "

Ivan couldn't understand Alfred, but the boy's tone, his voice, was soothing. He wanted him to keep talking.

Soon it was over. Yao cut the thread and cleaned his hands off with a cloth (the blood washed off but the ink did not). He collected his tools and repacked them in the sewing-kit. " _Alfred_ , _I'll leave you to bandage him up_ ," he said, handing the boy a roll of clean linen bandages. " _I have to finish writing those travel papers. Hopefully they'll be dry before tomorrow night._ And, Ivan, don't be a fucking fool." Yao planted his hands on his lace-clad hips. It was, admittedly, a comical sight. (The ribbons tied into bows in his long, jet-black hair made him look especially feminine.) "The next time you injure yourself, tell someone! Your pride isn't worth bleeding to death, idiot." Then he stalked off.

Alfred looked down at the bandages in his hand. " _Err... okay then_. _So I'll just wrap you up_... _like a mummy_ ," he joked. Ivan lifted an eyebrow in question. Alfred sighed. " _Never-mind. Just try not to move_ , _okay_?"

As Alfred focused on his task, wrapping the linen bandages around Ivan's barrel-chested torso, Ivan focused on Alfred. He liked the touch of Alfred's clumsy yet gentle hands. And his faint scent, like corn fields and sunny skies. He could feel the boy's hot breath on his skin, his head bowed. Like Ivan, Alfred was strong. He tied the bandages too tight and flinched when Ivan grunted. " _Oops_ , _sorry_!" he apologized, looking like a scolded puppy.

 _He's cute_ , Ivan decided. _He's really cute. I wonder why I never noticed it before_? (Probably because Alfred never shut up.)

Finished, Alfred stood. " _I'm going to ask Francis for a cold-compress_. _It'll help bring your fever down. And I'll get more water. I'll be right back_ —"

"Alfred," Ivan interrupted his retreat. The boy looked over-the-shoulder at him in surprise. The Russian had never addressed him directly before; certainly not by name. " _Thank-you_ ," he said. It was the extent of Ivan's English, but Alfred's pretty face softened in reply, which made the Russian's mispronunciation worth it.

Kindly, the American smiled, and said: " _You're welcome_."

* * *

 **ENGLISH**

Arthur poked his head into the kitchen, the pantry, the scullery, and the cellar. "Matthew?" he said hopefully, but the boy was nowhere to be found. He scanned the darkness—he saw that Francis' portrait was safe—but couldn't find the Canadian anywhere. _There are only so many places he could be_ , he thought, logic fighting panic. Matthew was aware of the danger; he wouldn't go wandering off. (Alfred, maybe, but not Matthew). Arthur had told him to stay inside, so that's exactly what Matthew did. He obeyed like a child afraid of his father's disapproval. It had never been Arthur's intention to mother the North Americans— _they're both eighteen-years-old_ , _they're capable of making their own life choices_ —but the past few weeks had been hectic and he felt uneasy about leaving them alone— _they're eighteen-years-old_ , _they'll definitely make the wrong choices_.

"Oh, for the love of Victoria's bloomers," he grumbled. "Where are you, you little—"

"Who are you looking for?"

Arthur wasn't expecting a reply and jumped like a Jack-in-the-box when he got one.

"Bloody-hell, Yao! Don't sneak up on me like that!" Arthur clutched his chest in reflex, his heart racing. Yao waited patiently for the Englishman to catch his breath. "I'm looking for Matthew. I can't find him anywhere and I'm starting to worry. It's late and that Gestapo officer just left. I hope Matthew's disappearance isn't somehow connected. Have you seen him?"

"Matthew is the pilot, right? The mouthy blonde with the blue eyes? He's upstairs with Ivan."

"No, that's Alfred," Arthur corrected (though he, too, sometimes called them by the wrong name). "Matthew has violet eyes. He's Canadian. He's posing as a waiter. He's the quiet boy whose room you commandeered—?"

Yao shrugged.

"Oh, never-mind," said Arthur impatiently. "Maybe the frog-eater sent him to run an errand or something. Come with me," he ordered Yao.

But—using Yao as a translator—Arthur soon learned that Francis didn't know where Matthew was either. He voiced the same concerns that plagued Arthur: that Matthew's whereabouts could somehow be connected to Gilbert's late-night visit. Arthur bit his knuckle thoughtfully. _Should I organize I search-party_ , _or will that draw suspicion_?

"Oi! Alfred!" he called when Alfred appeared. "Do you know where Matthew is?"

"Mattie? Uh, no. Do you have a cold-compress, Francis?"

Francis nudged Yao: " _What did he say_?"

Yao, who was less inclined to translate for monolinguals (Matthew now did it habitually), rolled his eyes and repeated Alfred's request. "I'll take it to Ivan—"

"No!" Alfred denied. "I mean, err... I'll do it. I don't mind." He waited for Francis to shovel ice into a rubber-compress and then took it. "I can't leave the café, so I can't search for Matt. You go, Yao. I'll stay with Ivan. I hope you find him," he said, distracted by his task as he dashed back to the loft.

He left Arthur shaking his head in frustration. "If I ever have kids," he said, "I hope they're nothing like those pilots. They'll give me an aneurism before this is all over. C'mon," he gestured to Francis and Yao. "Let's find Matthew before someone else does."

* * *

 **FRENCH**

Matthew awoke when a gunshot fired. He jolted up, heart pounding as he reached in reflex for a gun. He imagined the foxholes of the front-lines and whipped around in panic, shaking. He pushed himself onto his elbows and blinked in the darkness. Only then did he recognize the café's coat-closet, where he had fallen asleep. "Oh, jeeze," he exhaled in relief. "Just a dream." But the loud, boisterous voices in the café's dining-room sounded through the walls. They were

the aggressive voices of rowdy soldiers—soldiers who had found a new plaything.

" _Come here_ , _darling. Let's see your pretty face_."

" _Let's see your pretty—Ouch_!" The soldier chuckled in appreciation. " _You're a feisty little thing_ , _aren't you_?"

Matthew got up and stumbled blindly to the door. _Is it Yvette or Maria that_ _they're after_? he wondered. He emerged from the closet to investigate, blinking in the dim light. The soldiers, flushed with alcohol, were laughing and swaying and waving handguns around dangerously as they surrounded—not Yvette or Maria. Not even a girl, actually. It was Yao. _At least his disguise is working_ , Matthew thought, hurrying to intervene. "Pardon!" he called-out, pushing into the circle. "I'm sorry, but my, uh... cousin isn't a waitress. She shouldn't even be here, actually. Please don't—"

" _Oh_? _And what have we got here_?" said the German soldier holding Yao's waist. His hands were big, strong, and wandered heedlessly. " _You want to play hero_ , _boy_?"

" _Or damsel-in-distress_?" said another, grabbing Matthew's hips from behind. He pulled the boy against his chest and leaned down. Matthew could feel the soldier's hot breath against his cheek. " _I'll be your hero_ ," he joked. His fellows laughed and wolf-howled. In encouragement, the soldier kissed Matthew's cheek.

The Canadian shivered in revulsion and clenched his fists, repressing the urge to fight. He (and Yao, too) had formal combat training, but he couldn't let the Germans know that. It would undermine his disguise and probably just get him beat-up. The Germans were trained to kill, too, after all. Instead, he threw a panicked glance at Yao, seeking advice, but the Chinaman was red-faced in fury. He seemed to be holding his breath as a soldier knelt and slipped a hand beneath the red dress in exploration. Yao flinched.

"Stop it!" Matthew begged. "Please, stop it!"

" _Sorry_ , _darling_. _I don't speak French_ ," said the soldier holding him." _What is it you want from me_ , _huh_? _You want me to touch you like that_?"

"No, please—"

Suddenly, Yao screwed-up his face and shrieked like the girl he was pretending to be. It was loud and high-pitched and made everyone in the café flinch.

" _What the fuck_? _Hurry_! _Shut her up_! _If the Captain hears her—_!"

Yao got backhanded across the face, but his shriek worked. Francis and Arthur hurried in from the back, and Alfred jumped down the from loft. But nobody arrived faster than Ludwig.

" _STOP_!" he yelled furiously. " _What in hell do you think you're doing_? _Release them right now_!" The soldiers dropped Yao and Matthew and tried to detach themselves from the scene as quickly as possible. They backed away, seeming to shrink beneath their captain's smoldering gaze. " _You are German soldiers_ , _not savages_!" Ludwig lectured. " _This is not why we're here_! _These two_ "—he indicated Yao and Matthew—" _are relatives of our host! I don't care what you do to Allied soldiers_ , _but you will not lay a hand on civilians_ _as long as I am captain here_! _We might be at war with France_ , _but we will not harm innocents_! _Our job is to protect people_! _Don't ever forget that_!" he roared. " _Now get out_!"

"I'm sorry, so very sorry! Signore Beilschmidt is really, really, really sorry, Signore Bonnefoi!" said Feliciano. He bowed his head as he over-translated Ludwig's apology. "That shouldn't have happened. It'll never happen again, we promise!"

Francis held Yao and Matthew protectively, pretending to be concerned about the well-being of his younger family members. "This is completely unacceptable, Capitaine," he said, trying to find a balance between outrage and forgiveness. "If your men require some female companionship then may I kindly offer the services of Yvette or Maria? My family is not available for such things!"

" _Yes_ , _I know. I'm sorry. Tell him I'm sorry_ , _Feliciano. Tell him that I—_ " Ludwig stopped suddenly. He eyed Matthew curiously, his eyebrows drawn together in a frown. " _Is that my brother_ ' _s coat_?"

Matthew blinked. Suddenly everyone was staring at him. He blushed. Too focused on rescuing Yao, he hadn't realized that he was, in fact, wearing a heavy black coat that wasn't his. _Did I mistake it for a blanket in my sleep_? he wondered. Then he saw his reflection in a wall-mirror and recognized the Geheime Staatspolizei insignia—the proud eagle and swastika—and Feliciano's translation hit him. _His brother—the Gestapo_? He gasped in apology. "Oh! I'm so sorry! I must have grabbed it by mistake!" he said, stripping it off. "I'm sorry, Monsieur Capitaine!" Hastily he handed the coat back to Ludwig, who took it suspiciously.

"Well," said Francis, stepping protectively in front of Matthew. "I think that's enough excitement for tonight, don't you agree, Capitaine? No one got hurt"—Yao glared at him—"so let's just forget these little _accidents_ , okay?"

As Matthew helped Francis tidy the café after the Germans left, he found himself thinking about everything that had happened. Maybe he had been sleep-deprived, but even so he couldn't picture himself grabbing Gilbert's coat unprovoked. He hadn't even meant to fall asleep, but he had been _so_ tired. _I could have gotten into a lot of trouble for that_ , he knew. _I could have been accused of stealing from the Gestapo_. _But Ludwig let me go._ The German's reactions tonight had surprised Matthew (in a _very_ good way). He hadn't expected Ludwig to defend he and Yao from his own men, or leave so quietly with Gilbert's coat and an apology on his lips. _He's a German_ , _but he's not a monster._

" _Our job is to protect people_!" he had said, which confused Matthew. He had been told that German soldiers were cruel and murderous. Evil, even. But Captain Ludwig Beilschmidt was not. And if that was true, then maybe—

He considered the heavy, black coat.

—Gilbert Beilschmidt wasn't either.

* * *

 **GERMAN**

Ludwig stopped on the café's doorstep. "Wait a minute."

He exchanged a thoughtful look with Feliciano, who blinked, and then deliberately strode back into the café.

"Bonnefoi!" he yelled, but needn't have. Francis and Matthew were in the dining-room, tidying up tables; the Chinese girl was talking to the green-eyed man, who nodded; and beside them stood a tall, blonde boy, eyeing a bottle of cognac on the bar. He flinched when Ludwig pointed at him, and said: "You! You're that grocer I saw on the street!" The boy froze like a spooked fawn as Ludwig marched toward him. He saw the boy's American dog-tags and realized his mistake. "No! You're not a grocer, you're a solider!"

Ludwig drew his gun at the same time Arthur drew his. He pointed at the German's chest as Ludwig aimed at Alfred. Unexpectedly, Matthew snatched the gun from Feliciano's holster and pointed the barrel at Ludwig; Feliciano peeped in fright; Yao drew a knife from under his dress; and Francis raised his unarmed hands in innocence. He said:

" _Capitaine Beilschmidt_ , _we don't want a fight. Just lower your weapon—_ "

" _Drop it now or I'll fucking shoot you_!" Arthur threatened.

"My God! An Englishman?" Ludwig gasped. "Bonnefoi, what the fuck is going on in here? How long have you been hiding Allied soldiers?" He glanced from Arthur to Alfred to Matthew. "Feliciano, ask him!"

" _About as long as you've been stealing priceless artefacts from the Führer_ ," Francis gambled. He stepped in front of Alfred and bravely faced the Lugar's barrel. " _Might I remind you_ , _Monsieur Capitaine_ , _that I am presently in possession of the portrait that you wish to keep secret_? _If the Gestapo were to find it_ —"

"You would be shot," Ludwig inserted. "They'll think you stole it."

" _Yes_ , _and then the Gestapo will give the portrait to the Führer and you will be left with nothing. Feliciano will be left with nothing. All the trouble you went through to secure it_ _and hide it will have been for nothing. Don't you see_?" said Francis smoothly. " _Neither of us gains anything by exposing the other. We'll both be shot_ , _especially if I just happen to drop your name before my execution. We have a better chance at outwitting the Gestapo if we work together_ ," he urged, revealing a smile of good-faith. " _You don't even have to do anything_ , _Capitaine. Just pretend you didn't see Arthur_ , _Alfred_ , _and Mathieu tonight_ , _and I'll pretend that I know nothing about the portrait in the cellar_ , _okay_? _That way everyone benefits_ — _except for the Gestapo_ , _of course._ "

Ludwig considered Francis' proposition. "Work together with the Allies?" He looked down at Feliciano, who was clutching his sleeve, wide-eyed in fright. The Italian's safety was always Ludwig's priority. He disliked the idea of aiding the Allies, but it was better than watching a firing-squad shoot his lover for betrayal. _I don't actually have to do anything. I just have to turn a blind-eye. Besides_ , _Gilbert will be devastated if he finds out that his crush is a soldier_. _It'll be better if he just thinks the boy left town_.

After a lot of careful deliberation—and extensive debate—he agreed. He lowered his gun, and said: "Fine, I'll do it. But if they get caught"—he pointed to the Englishman and North Americans—"then I'll deny everything. I'm not risking Feliciano and I for you people, understand?"

" _Yes_. _Thank-you_ , _Capitaine. And don't worry_ , _tomorrow this will all be over._ "

* * *

 **ENGLISH**

 **EIGHT HOURS LATER**

Arthur rolled over and buried his face in the lily-sweet scent of French laundry-soap. He inhaled sleepily and hugged a pillow, letting the bed-sheet slip down his naked shoulders. A minute later he felt the whispered kiss of soft lips on his skin. He cracked open an eye and glanced over-the-shoulder at Francis, who grinned. "Hmm, what time is it?" Arthur asked, stretching his arms as he turned. Bright sunlight filtered in through the blinds on the window, leaving a striped pattern on the Frenchman's languid figure. "Oi, stop that!" he laughed. He tried effortlessly to push Francis off as the Frenchman peppered him in playful kisses, but eventually he relented. He loved Francis' skillful touch and the way his velvety lips nipped affectionately at Arthur's neck. Lying in the Frenchman's bed, Arthur felt relaxed for the first time in months. _Maybe Alfred is right_ , _sex is the best medicine. Or maybe_ , he thought, wrapping his arms around Francis, _it's because a plane is coming to get the lads tonight and they'll finally be safe_. _I can stop worrying about them._

" _Mm_ , _mon chéri_ ," Francis whispered, lifting his bedraggled head. He kissed Arthur's eager lips. " _Bonjour_ —"

" _Francis_! _Francis_!" cried Maria suddenly. " _Monsieur_ , _a messenger from the Résistance Française just gave me a letter_! _It's encoded_ , _but I think it's about the—Oh_!" She stumbled to a sudden halt in the doorway when she saw Francis and Arthur in bed together.

"Oh, fuck," said Arthur.

Francis extended his hand. " _Give me the letter_ , _mon petit chéri_."

Maria held it to her bosom, out of reach. She pouted. " _What is this_?" She looked from Arthur to Francis as if she had been betrayed, a sad, lost look on her heart-shaped face. " _Francis_ , _you said that I was your only true love. You said that we would be together after the war. Why are you in bed with the Englishman_?"

" _Ah_ , _yes... that's a very good question_ , _ma cher._ " Francis looked at Arthur, who merely shrugged, offering no help. " _It's because... of you_ , _chéri. I did it for you_ , _of course_! _The Résistance is so greedy_ , _they think they can demand whatever they want from us. I know that you are already doing your part_ , _Maria_ , _by entertaining the Germans_. _I just couldn't live with myself if you had to service the Allies as well_ , _so I offered him myself instead to_ , _err... protect you_ , _ma cher_!" Dragging half the of bed-sheet with him, Francis stood and kissed Maria's delicate hand. " _Do not think badly of me_ , _Maria. Ma petit cabbage_ , _ma chéri_ —?"

Arthur rolled his eyes and leaned back, his arms crossed. "A bit overdramatic, aren't you frog-eater?" he said, expecting no reply.

Maria, however, swooned in happiness. " _Oh_ , _Francis_! _I'm so sorry_ , _my love_!" she said, squeezing his hands. " _Please forgive me. Here_ , _your message_." She handed it to him.

" _Thank-you_ , _ma chéri._ " Francis cast an innocent look back at Arthur, who merely cocked an eyebrow. " _Uh_ , _I think it's best if you go now_ , _Maria_ , _ma belle. But don't tell anyone about_ , _err... my sacrifice_ , _okay_?"

Maria promised to take Francis' secret to her grave and then hurried off. Francis leaned back with a relieved sigh. He handed Arthur the letter, which was written in coded English. " _It's from the Résistance_ ," he said.

"Oh, it's from the Resistance," said Arthur, unfolding it. "I need the code-book to read it."

* * *

They got dressed, searching Francis' disorganized bedroom for clothes, and then headed into the loft. Arthur felt like a sailor as he climbed the swaying rope-ladder, snapping at Francis behind him: "Holding my arse isn't necessary, you know." He reached the trapdoor and pushed it open, using a pocket-torch to light the small, low-ceilinged space as he crawled inside. The bright light reflected off a small mirror and momentarily blinded Arthur, which is why it took him a moment to recognize:

"Alfred! What the bloody-hell are you doing?"

Alfred's long legs were wrapped suggestively around Ivan's waist and his hands were tangled in silver-blonde hair, urging the Russian closer. Ivan's torso was naked except for the bandages denoting his injuries. He held Alfred's sides, hands beneath the boy's shirt as he sucked his suntanned neck; his shoulder; his chest. Alfred's flushed skin was slicked with beads of sweat and his wheat-blonde hair was in disarray, head pressed back into a pillow. A subtle whine pushed past his lips as he opened his bright cornflower-blue eyes. Then suddenly he gasped; because of Ivan's greedy administrations or because he noticed his audience, Arthur didn't know, but the boy's eyes looked more frightened now than when he had been at gunpoint.

"It's, uh... not what it looks like—?" he gasped guiltily.

"What the fuck, Alfred? Get off— _get off of him_!" Arthur yelled at Ivan, grabbing his shoulder. The Russian's face was impassive as he shoved Arthur back. His push was strong and forced the Englishman back into Francis, who steadied him. "Braginsky! I swear to God, I will fucking shoot you if you've hurt him!"

"No, Artie, it's not like that!" said Alfred. "I can explain, okay? Just let me—Hey, Ivan, get off."

Francis held Arthur's biceps as Alfred crawled out of the bed, half-dressed and tousled, thinking perhaps that Arthur would otherwise try to charge the boy in outrage. Arthur glared at the sweating American, whose well-being he felt responsible for. He had been so careful and spent so much time and energy protecting him from— _I thought the Germans were the only ones I had to protect him from_. Arthur clenched his fists. "If that Russian forced you to—"

"No, he didn't!" Alfred waved in frantic dismissal. He stood defensively between Ivan and Arthur, like a boy trying to explain his blunder to a livid parent. Arthur eyed him expectantly. Alfred swallowed, trying to re-buckle his trousers without looking down. "Ivan and I have been spending a lot of time together locked in here, and... we just, you know... we were both kind of lonely, and... I know we can't understand each other, but he's not so bad, you know? It's not like he just jumped on me unexpectedly. I let him, err... not jump on me exactly, but it wasn't like what you're thinking, Artie. It's, uh... really sweet. Like, tender and shit. It's not like I got bored and decided to let the Ruskie fuck me," he laughed nervously.

Arthur continued to glare, dissatisfied with Alfred's explanation.

Alfred shifted from foot-to-foot before noticing the letter in the Englishman's pocket. "Hey, is that from the Resistance?" he asked hopefully, grabbing at the change-of-topic. "I'll get the code-book!"

" _What does it say_? _Oh hell_ , _where's Mathieu when I need him_?" said Francis, considering the room's lack of Francophones.

In simmering silence, Arthur decoded the short letter. His Lincoln-green eyes widened in realization and he crumpled the letter in his fist. "Oh, bollocks!" he growled in frustration. "It's about you and Matthew, Alfred. The Resistance buggered-up one of their bloody reconnaissance missions and the Jerries got smart to their movements. They've posted sentries around the clock at all points of entrance into the town. They'll be guarding the bloody field tonight where the plane is supposed to land."

"Fuck!" said Alfred. "How the fuck are Mattie and I going to get to the field if it's being guarded by Krauts?"

Ivan placed his hand on Alfred's shoulder, concerned about the look of distress on the boy's face. He didn't speak unnecessarily, knowing that nobody would understand, so he let his actions speak for him. His hard, pale eyes scrutinized the letter in Arthur's hand, as if the ink itself could somehow harm Alfred.

"Let's tell Matthew," said Arthur, grabbing Alfred's forearm. He pulled indelicately, still angry.

"Ach—!"

"What the—? Ivan, let go of him!" Arthur yanked Alfred's arm like a tug-o-war rope, but Ivan didn't let go of the boy. "Alfred, for fuck's sake, tell him to let go!"

"It's okay." Alfred awkwardly patted Ivan's hand. "You can, err... let go of me now. Please."

Arthur dragged Alfred down the rope-ladder, muttering profanities to himself in frustration until he reached the bottom, taking Francis' outstretched hand for balance. The Frenchman grinned at him ironically.

" _A bit overdramatic_ , _aren't you_ , _chéri_?" he said, expecting no reply.

* * *

 **FRENCH**

They found Matthew in the kitchen sweeping wheat-flour off the floor. "Sorry, Francis! It was an accident, I knocked it off the counter. I'll replace it, I promise. I know how expensive supplies are. I'm really sorry—"

"Oh no, it's alright, Mathieu," Francis soothed. He pulled Matthew into a one-armed hug and took the broom dismissively. "Don't worry, I'll get another bag from Capitaine Beilschmidt. It's okay, chéri. Besides, judging by Arthur and Alfred's reactions, we have more important things to worry about. Tell me what this letter says."

Matthew read the letter and then listened as Arthur and Alfred talked simultaneously in explanation, both at increasing volumes as the subject intensified. He repeated everything to Francis, who, in return, proceeded to panic.

"Mon Dieu! If the Germans catch you, you'll both be shot!" he said needlessly. "You'll both need to disguise yourselves, but not as Frenchmen. The sentries won't let civilians get near the field. They probably won't trust anyone who's not wearing... a German uniform!" he realized suddenly. "I've got it! If we disguise you as German soldiers, you can pass unnoticed!"

" _That's completely mad_ , _frog-eater_! _It's way too dangerous_!" said Arthur. " _Besides_ , _where exactly are we going to get two German uniforms_?"

" _Ciao_! Monsieur Bonnefoi, are you here?" Feliciano's jaunty voice called from the dining-room.

The Allied foursome shared a collaborative look. Francis' lips curled into a daring grin.

" _No_." Arthur shook his head in dread. " _It's too risky_ , _we can't steal Ludwig and Feliciano's uniforms_!"

"We won't _steal_ them, we'll just _borrow_ them," Francis emphasized, "Monsieur Capitaine won't even notice."

" _And what makes you think he won't notice_?"

Francis poked his head out of the kitchen door, spying on the German and Italian. The café was quiet, nearly empty. The pianist was flirting with Yvette, and Maria was replacing the tablecloths. Nobody was paying attention to Ludwig, who was standing at the bar, impatiently awaiting service. Feliciano was holding his arm affectionately, like a lady and her escort. He smiled up at Ludwig, talking incessantly. Ludwig sighed, feigning annoyance, but Francis saw the stern-faced German's cheeks blush in proximity. He lifted a big hand and patted Feliciano's silky head, toying with an errant curl, which made the boy blush in reply. Francis smirked as a plan took shape in his mind. He ducked back into the kitchen and closed the door.

"Don't worry, he won't notice a thing," he said craftily. "I'll get you those uniforms. Just be ready to leave at eleven o'clock."

* * *

 **ENGLISH**

 **WHAT REALLY HAPPENED IN THE LOFT...**

I'm _so bored_!" Alfred whined. He banged his forehead on the wall twice, then decided a headache wasn't worth the drama and sunk onto the floor, resting his head against the bed's edge. Ivan, who was lying on his stomach, looked at him indifferently. The bed-sheet hung low on his tapered hips, revealing the waistband of threadbare trousers. He was healing quickly. He breathed easy, chest rising and falling rhythmically, and his eyelids drooped in boredom. When his hand landed on Alfred's head the boy glanced at him, unimpressed. "I wish we had some dice, or a deck of cards, or, like, a yoyo or something," he complained. Ivan lifted a questioning eyebrow; Alfred's lip quirked in amusement. It fell, however, when Ivan took a hold of Alfred's face and leaned forward, closing the distance between them. Their lips met briefly and the boy's body flinched in surprise. He flushed in embarrassment; in unexpected arousal.

" _Wha_ —?" he gasped.

Ivan grinned. "Thank-you," he said cheekily in English.

Alfred blinked. "You just... kissed me."

Ivan chuckled, shifting in bed. He lowered his hand to the back of Alfred's neck, massaging it tenderly. There was no mistaking his body's carnal intent.

Alfred considered the Russian's mischievous invitation, weighing it against the mind-numbing boredom he had felt moments before. Ivan _was_ good-looking, after all. And a good kisser, it seemed. And there was nothing else to do. What could it hurt, really?

"Yeah, okay," he said. And he climbed into Ivan's bed.


	3. Swiftly And With Style

**DISCLAIMER:** **Hetalia: Axis Powers** **– Hidekaz Himaruya**

 **AND 'Allo 'Allo! – David Croft & Jeremy Lloyd**

 **THE GREAT UN-ESCAPE**

* * *

 **THREE**

 **SWIFTLY AND WITH STYLE**

Alright, loves? I'm Captain Arthur Kirkland of the BEF and this is the story so far:

Francis Bonnefoi's _Café Le Fleur-de-lis_ has been commandeered by the French Resistance in order to hide Allied soldiers trying to get to England, which is safe(r) than German-occupied France. I've been working with the Resistance to hunt down POWs and lads classified as MIA. Alfred Jones and Matthew Williams are two such North American pilots who have been living at the café for a fortnight. Matthew, posing as Bonnefoi's cousin, seems to have caught the eye of the Gestapo; while Alfred has been fooling around with a Russian spy in the loft. Wang Yao (a Chinese forger disguised as Bonnefoi's niece) has promised me that the pilots travel papers will be ready for tonight's escape attempt, but I'm worried. A British plane is scheduled to collect them at midnight, but the only way for Alfred and Matthew to get past the sentries is to disguise themselves as Germans. Captain Ludwig Beilschmidt has agreed to keep our plan secret as long as Bonnefoi continues to hide a priceless Italian portrait for him (stolen from the Führer). He hasn't exactly given us permission to, err... borrow his and his adjutant's uniforms, but Bonnefoi assures me that he can keep them busy long enough to get Alfred and Matthew to that plane. It'll be my job to signal the plane when the lads are in position—

—if I don't have a bloody heart-attack first.

* * *

 **ENGLISH**

This is _never_ going to work," said Arthur pessimistically. It was nearly eleven o'clock at night and the café was quiet. Yvette, Maria, and—to his displeasure—Yao were keeping the few patrons entertained while Francis used his silver-tongue to sweet-talk Ludwig into taking advantage of the café's hospitality. (" _I'm certain Feliciano would love a night off_. _I's sure that he would really appreciate you for it_ , _Capitaine_. _It's the least I can do for your discretion_ ," Francis offered slyly.) Arthur stood in the back with Alfred and Matthew, who were hastily tugging on the German uniforms that Francis had delivered as promised. "How in hell did you convince Beilschmidt to lend us their uniforms?" Arthur had asked, surprised and impressed. Francis had tactfully avoided the question, admitting that he had had to sacrifice his bedroom for the captain's use. " _I don't know how long we've got. At least an hour_ ," he guessed, grinning cheekily. Everything had been going according to the plan— _We might even pull this off_! Arthur hoped—until the pilots finished dressing. Now he stood in front of them, shaking his head. "This is _never_ going to work."

"It's too big," said Alfred needlessly, wiggling the sleeves of Ludwig's uniform. The olive-green coat fit loosely across his chest, shoulders sagging, and the sleeves and legs were too long. He exchanged a glance with Matthew, who looked equally discouraged. He was wearing Feliciano's uniform, which was several inches too short and hugged his slender body tightly.

"Oh, bloody-hell. You can't wear those."

" _They have to_ ," Francis argued. " _They don't have any choice. That plane is landing in an hour_. _If you're not there to signal it_ , _it won't land. We don't have time to find a better disguise_!"

"Are you blind, frog?" Arthur gestured at the boys. "Alfred looks like he's playing dress-up in his granddad's clothes, and Matthew looks like a fucking stripper. Uh, no offense, pet. A high-class stripper, of course. For politicians and athletes," he added in appeasement. Matthew nodded in mock-thanks. "They're never going to fool the Jerries looking like that."

" _They have to_! _We've all made sacrifices_ , _Capitaine. I've got two naked Germans in my bedroom_ , _so they had better wear those fucking uniforms_!" Francis snapped. " _Alfred_ , _just try to look bigger_ ," he advised, straightening the boy's posture. " _And Mathieu_ , _err... don't bend over too far_."

At ten after eleven o'clock, Arthur led the boys out the back, dressed in long trench-coats, and keeping close to the walls of the town buildings. The cloudless moonlight was bright and uncompromising; it betrayed their escape. Arthur's nerves were as taut as a bowstring as he moved, his green-eyed gaze sharp. He hugged the shadows, playing scout as he led them quickly through town, avoiding the high-street. _Stop_ , _wait there_ , he signalled, then waved them forward. _Okay_ , _it's clear. C'mon._ He stopped at the railroad tracks, hiding in the long grass. From there he could see the empty field where the plane would land. In front of it, a single German sentry paced lethargically. _Where there's one_ , _there's more_ , he knew, _like cockroaches_. He gestured for the boys. "Alright, it's time," he said, taking the trench-coats from them. "Do you each have your travel papers? Good. The plane should be flying over in ten minutes." He consulted his wrist-watch. "I'll be waiting here. Now, don't be nervous. Just act natural," he advised. "Everything will be just fine."

"Hey, Artie?" said Alfred as Arthur re-buttoned his collar, smoothing his coat. "You're shaking."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are," said Matthew as Arthur straightened his cap.

"No, I'm not. I'm fine. You're going to be fine. We're all going to be perfectly fucking fine! There's nothing to be afraid of!" The boys exchanged a weary glance. The Englishman blushed, ashamed of his reaction, but he couldn't suppress his unease. _If anything happens to these lads_ , _it'll be my fault. If they get captured_ — _or worse_ , _shot_ — _it'll be my fault_. "No," he repeated in feigned confidence. "Don't worry, lads. There's nothing to worry about. I'll be watching in case anything goes wrong—not that anything will go wrong. It won't. It'll all be fine. Now go." He pushed Matthew urgently toward Alfred.

"Be safe," he added as they left.

* * *

Just be natural," Alfred whispered, keeping close to Matthew. They walked shoulder-to-shoulder. Alfred was clutching Matthew's hand with a vice-like strength that threatened the Canadian's blood-circulation.

"Al, let go. _This_ doesn't look natural," he said. "You're going to break my fingers! And you're making us look like lovers!"

"Yeah—? I thought we were supposed to act like Ludwig and Feliciano," Alfred joked.

Matthew rolled his eyes. "Just let go."

No sooner had Alfred released Matthew's hand then a bright torch blinded them. " _You there_! _Stop_!" said the German sentry. He leapt down from the twisting railroad tracks and pointed a rifle at them. " _Who are you_? _Who sent you_?"

"Do you speak German?" Alfred whispered to Matthew.

"No. Do you?"

"No."

"Fuck, we really didn't think this through, did we?"

The sentry stared at them, unblinking. Discretely Alfred nudged Matthew. "Say something to him," he urged.

"If I say something, he'll know we're not Germans!"

"Well, pretend you're a mute then, or injured. Fuck! Just do something! He's staring at us!"

"Why me?"

" _State your names and ranks now_!" the sentry demanded.

"Matt-ie!"

" _Kapitän Beilschmidt_!" Matthew blurted, planting his finger in the centre of Alfred's chest. He had heard the soldiers in the café address Ludwig enough times to mime the pronunciation, but, unfortunately, that was the extent of his German. He held his breath and eyed the sentry's rifle-barrel anxiously, waiting for him to reply.

The sentry blinked. " _Kapitän Beilschmidt sent you_?"

Alfred and Matthew nodded vigorously. Alfred smiled.

"Germans don't smile," Matthew whispered.

"Oh. Right." Alfred frowned instead.

The sentry said: " _What's the password_? _The password_!" he demanded, waving the gun. He stepped closer in threat, his blue eyes glancing between them.

This time it was Matthew who grabbed Alfred's hand and squeezed it. In the distance he could hear the faint drone of a plane engine. It was nearly midnight. He saw Arthur's subtle signal, a triple flash of yellow light. The plane was nearing the field in search of them. It wouldn't land if it didn't spy them. They were running out of time. Matthew panicked. "Al, what do we do?"

"Tackle him—?" Alfred suggested.

Matthew considered it. He wondered if they could out-run the sentry's gun. After deciding that they couldn't, he said: "Yes, tackle him. Ready?"

"Now!"

* * *

 **FRENCH**

Francis smoked a cigarette while he waited; waited while the Chinaman distracted the soldiers; while the German and Italian had sex in his bedroom; while the Englishman deliberately placed himself in danger; and while the two North Americans tiptoed past death. The hand holding the cigarette was sweaty. He couldn't settle. He smoked it down to nothing and then lit another. He tapped his foot impatiently, which caught Yvette's attention when she entered.

"Monsieur? Awe, what's wrong, chéri?" she asked, pouting. She reached suggestively for him, but he caught her wrists and shook his head.

"No. Not now, ma petit pigeon," he said half-heartedly.

"But chéri—"

"No, Yvette. Just go," he said, leaving her there. He needed to know what was happening. He disliked being left behind (not that he wanted to be in the thick of danger, but he hated waiting). _Are the boys okay_? _Is Arthur okay_? He needed a sign or signal to affirm his hopes. He needed a third-party to support those hopes so that he didn't feel so alone waiting. He needed fresh air. _I wish I could do something_ , Francis thought, stepping outside. _Something more helpful than lending my bedroom to Ludwig and Feliciano_. He covered his eyes with a hand, wishing that the night would end. A minute later, Yao stumbled outside. He was red-faced in frustration, hands balled into the folds of his knee-high dress. _Knee-high_? _When did that happen_? Francis wondered. _Did he—or someone else—cut the bottom off_? _Mon Dieu_ , _what is happening to my beautiful café_? "Your ribbons have fallen out," he pointed.

Yao glared at him. He tugged off the cherry-red ribbons and clenched them in his tawny fist, letting his long hair cascade over his shoulders. "I look like a fucking fool and it's your fault, Bonnefoi. This might come as a surprise to you, but I'm sick of pretending to be a sixteen-year-old girl! Those soldiers..." He shivered in revulsion.

"I know. I'm sorry, Yao," Francis sighed. "It's just until the boys are safe. We'll know soon. Arthur should be back soon, and then— _Arthur_?"

The Englishman was dashing up the high-street as fast as he could, trench-coat flying out behind him like a cape. His face was flushed in exertion and he was sweating, but beneath the heat he was pale. He reached the café and collapsed against Francis' side, clawing at him for balance. Francis held Arthur as he gasped, trying to relay an urgent message:

" _Get—radio_!" _hah_ " _The—Resist-ance— took—lads. Mistake_! _—Oh God_!" _hah_ " _Can't—breathe_!"

"Arthur, are you okay?" Francis asked worriedly. "What's wrong? What happened?"

" _Radio_!" the Englishman gasped.

He staggered into the café and Francis and Yao followed in confusion. Francis kept his hand on Arthur's back as the Englishman climbed the rope-ladder, afraid that he would fall. He looked as if he had ran all the way from the railroad tracks, which—Francis supposed—he had. He was ghostly-pale and the panic on his face was scaring Francis. Arthur elbowed the trapdoor open and crawled into the loft on his hands-and-knees, confusing Ivan. The Russian sat up, letting the bed-sheet pool at his waist. His eyes, which usually looked impassive, betrayed concern. Francis could see why Alfred was attracted to the Russian, though his personal tastes favoured slighter figures. He watched Arthur pull the radio out of the cubby and connect the wires.

" _Hello_? _Is anyone there_?" he said into the receiver.

"What's going on?" Francis asked Yao.

Yao said: "I don't know."

" _What's going on_?" Ivan asked Yao.

Yao said: " _I don't know_."

" _Hello_? _Please answer_ , _anybody—_?" Arthur begged. " _Somebody answer the fucking transmission_!"

The radio crackled to life. "' _Allo_. ' _Allo_! _Can you 'ear me_? _Ready to receive your message. Over_."

" _Yes_!" Arthur gasped. " _You have to call that plane back_ , _my lads aren't on it_! _They were disguised as Jerries and your Resistance captured them_!"

Yao translated in Russian and French. Ivan sucked in his breath. Francis said: "WHAT?"

The radio went silent and they waited for a reply. Arthur clenched the receiver with white knuckles; Francis clenched Arthur's shoulder; Yao stood anxiously beside him; Ivan leaned down from the bed. They crowded around the radio like vagabonds around a campfire, staring tensely at it as they waited. When it crackled back to life, Francis flinched. It said:

" _Ze chicks are not—_ "

" _No_ , _no more fucking codes_! _Speak the King's bloody English_!" Arthur snapped.

A sigh of exasperation came through the radio. " _We don't 'ave ze pilots_. _We 'aven't captured any Germans today. Ze Résistance ou kidnapped ze pilots is not our Résistance_. _It is ze Communist Résistance ou 'ave zem. We do not deal wit zem_ , _we 'ate zem_. _Zere is nozing we can do about it. Well_ , _zat is not technically ze truth. Zere is nozing we are willing to do. It is too dangerous._ _Sorry_."

Arthur opened his mouth to argue, but the line crackled and went dead, and the four Allies were left listening to white-noise. Then, suddenly, Arthur yanked out the wires and chucked the receiver against the wall. It broke apart and clattered to the floor. He yelled: " _Fuck_! _You bloody-fucking_ , _cock-sucking French wankers_!" Then he sunk down onto the bed and sat with his head in his hands.

Francis felt his heart clench, fear fighting sadness for dominance. He glanced at Ivan, whose fists were white, and then to Yao, who looked away unhelpfully. Not knowing what to do, Francis sat down beside Arthur and squeezed the Englishman's shoulder. In heavily-accented English, he said: " _It is_ , _err... 'ow you say_? _Good._ No, that's not right. Oh, I know! _It is alright_ , _Arthur_. _Alright—_?" Arthur looked at him in dubious surprise, half-smiling despite the bleak situation. His Lincoln-green eyes were soft and expectant. "Uh, that's all the English I know," Francis said regrettably. "I wish I could tell you how sorry and scared I am for those boys," he admitted. "I wish that I could say—" He stopped when he heard Yao's voice whispering in his ear, telling him what to say. Trusting the Chinaman, Francis repeated it: " _Arthur_ , _we will rescue ze boys from ze Communists. Zey will be alright_ , _I promise. Zey are strong. And when zis is all over_ , _I want you to suck my dick_ —"

Arthur had looked receptive at first, but suddenly he flinched and slapped Francis in reflex. " _Get away from me_ , _you pervert_!" He stood abruptly, blushing.

"Mon Dieu!" Francis rubbed his reddening cheek. "Yao, what the hell did you tell me to say?" he snapped at the snickering Chinaman. "Oh, never-mind. We're wasting time here, we've got to rescue the boys."

" _I'm going too_ ," said Ivan, crawling to his feet. The bed-sheet fell, revealing a half-naked man roped in rock-hard, snow-white muscles. He was an impressive specimen, despite the hardships he had suffered. Francis could see several scars on his skin, not only from gunshot wounds. When Ivan reached for his coat, however, Yao—who was half the Russian's size—snatched it from him fearlessly and held it out of reach. " _Give me my clothes_ , _Yao. I'm going too_ ," Ivan repeated. His voice sounded like a low warning growl.

" _No_ , _Ivan. You're injured_ —"

" _Those boys are in danger_!" Ivan retaliated loudly. The sudden outburst surprised Francis and Arthur, who both jumped. " _I'm sick of just lying around here doing nothing_! _I'm not a fucking invalid_! _If I can help those pilots_ , _then that's what I want to do_. _They don't deserve what will happen to them if we don't rescue them. Alfred_ , _he... he's not a bad person_ ," he said ambiguously.

" _But Ivan_ , _you'll risk yourself_ —"

" _Yao_ , _if you don't get out of my way_ , _I'll throw you over my shoulder and take you with me_ ," he threatened. His cold, violet eyes revealed the truth of his words, trying to bully Yao into compliance. He stepped forward and the Chinaman stepped back in reflex, dangerously close to the trapdoor. " _Tell them I'm coming_."

Yao bristled, then sighed in defeat. " _Fine_ , _do what you want._ Ivan is coming with us to rescue the pilots," he told Francis and Arthur. When they looked wearily at Ivan, Yao added: "If you want to try to stop him, be my guest."

"It doesn't matter, the more the better," Francis decided. "Let's hurry. The longer we wait the more time the boys spend in captivity." He grabbed Arthur's hand (much to the Englishman's displeasure) and dragged him toward the trapdoor."They're probably terrified, the poor things!"

* * *

 **ENGLISH**

Hey, Mattie?" Alfred whispered. He tugged uselessly at the bonds that tied them together, chafing his skin. They were sitting back-to-back on a dirt floor in a cold, dark barn; the German sentry was drooling on the floor a few feet away. The American was tired, hungry, and his whole body ached. He shifted uncomfortably. "I really have to take a piss."

"If you do, I'll crack your skull," Matthew deadpanned in reply.

* * *

 **SIX HOURS AGO**

Yes, tackle him," said Matthew. "Ready?"

"Now!" Alfred yelled in attack. He and Matthew charged the German sentry and knocked the surprised man to the ground. He was gangly, underfed, and went down like a sack of potatoes. _Thunk_! The rifle flew from his hand and landed at the foot of a camouflaged French patriot, who leveled a pistol at the struggling trio. His comrade leapt out of the grass, took the abandoned rifle, and shouted in angry French. Alfred didn't know or care what he had said; he was too busy sitting on the German's chest, restraining him. Matthew had stuffed a glove into the sentry's mouth to silence his shrieks, but the Canadian looked startled by the Frenchmen's appearance. Quickly, the French surrounded them. The leader repeated his order, louder, and gestured angrily at them.

"Hey! What's going on?" Alfred asked, confused when the Frenchmen grabbed for him. He had assumed that all of France was an ally, but it seemed that was not the case with this band. He tried to fight them, but he was greatly outnumbered. "Hey! Fuck off! Let go of me! Mattie! Mattie, what's going on? Who are these people?"

"They're the _other_ French Resistance, Communists! They think we're Germans!" Matthew gasped. "Al, listen to me, don't fight, okay? Don't— _Ah_!"

"Matt!" Alfred thrashed in his captors' grasp, but it was useless. There were too many of them and they were all armed. "We're not Krauts! Let us go, we're not fucking Germans!" he yelled. "We're with the French Resistance—"  
"No, don't tell them that!" said Matthew. "They'll kill us if they find out we're working against them, they'll—"

" _Shut the fuck up_!" said the nearest Frenchman. He clubbed Matthew in the head with the butt of his heavy rifle. The Canadian fell to his knees and blacked-out. Alfred shrieked in outrage and briefly tugged free of his captors' hold. He grabbed for the rifle-bearer and shook him violently before the others managed to restrain him.

" _Tie up this crazy motherfucker_! _And take this one_ , _too_." He kicked Matthew with the toe of his boot. " _We've got to get them to the barn before more Germans come_! _Vite_! _Vite_!"

* * *

 **PRESENT**

Alfred shifted uncomfortably and sighed, pulling at the bonds. His hands were tied tight behind him and he could feel his wrists chafing; his legs were tied like a mermaid's tail-fin, making it difficult to maneuver and impossible to stand; his torso was tied to Matthew's, he could feel the Canadian's cold skin through his skin-tight uniform. They had tried and failed to stand, pushing against each other's back for leverage. They had managed to get a few feet off the ground before Alfred lost his balance and toppled sideways, pulling Matthew down with him. ("Ouch, Al—!") Now they leaned on each other like tired hitchhikers.

"I'm hungry," Alfred whined, resting his head on Matthew's shoulder. "Do you think they'll feed us soon. Or, ever?" Matthew's silence was answer enough. "Fuck, I'd kill for a goddamned cigarette right now."

"I didn't know you smoke," Matthew said weakly. His voice was raw, more thirsty than hungry.

"I don't usually," Alfred admitted. "But Ivan had a pack in the loft and I kind of got into the habit—yes, a bad habit—because there was nothing else to do. Besides, I was so sick of onion soup. I just wanted the taste of it out of my mouth. It's actually really discussing—cigarettes, I mean, not the soup. I don't know how those older guys can smoke every fucking day."

"Al, those _older guys_ are only, like, eight years older than we are. They're hardly old men," Matthew said.

"Whatever," Al dismissed. "Cigarettes are gross. They makes your tongue taste really weird."

"Then why did you keep doing it?" Matthew asked.

"Oh, it wasn't my tongue. It was Ivan's."

"Please be kidding."

Alfred shrugged; Matthew's curls tickled his neck. "I was bored. He was there. He's, uh, a pretty good kisser."

"Mazel tov," said Matthew flatly.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, listening to the wind howl outside. It started to rain and the wind blew it through holes in the barn-boards, making Alfred shiver. He and Matthew shimmied into the centre of the barn to avoid getting wet, but it was dark and cold. It gave Alfred plenty of time to consider his bad-luck. _This is the second time I've been captured_ , he thought dejectedly. _First by Krauts_ , _now by Commies_. Alfred had tried to explain their situation to the Communists, but he didn't speak French. Matthew had tried to explain their situation, too, but they didn't believe him. The Frenchmen had taken their false travel papers and ripped them to shreds without reading any of it. They simply refused to believe that civilians would be wearing German uniforms for any innocent reason. When Matthew tried to fabricate a believable lie, they just hit him a few more times and poked fun at his outfit (Feliciano's uniform), which had torn at the seams. Matthew advised Alfred to keep quiet about their involvement with the French Resistance, whom the Communist group had an intense rivalry with.

"They won't think twice about shooting us and blaming the Germans," he predicted. "It's better if you don't provoke them, Al."

 _Provoke them_? Alfred thought. _If I get out of here_ , _I'm going to do a lot more than provoke the fuckers_.

Sighing in frustration, he closed his eyes. His thoughts wandered and he found himself remembering what it had been like as a POW in Germany. He shivered. He remembered how Arthur had rescued him, and how grateful he had been. (He might have—maybe—cried a little.) He thought about _Café_ _Le Fleur-de-lis_ and Francis, who had hidden he and Matthew at his own peril. He thought of the loft and of Ivan's cheeky grin and tender lips. After a long silence, he said:

"Mattie, do you think anyone will come for us?"

"I don't know, Al."

"Do you think..." Alfred swallowed, "we're going to die?"

Matthew's long pause was not reassuring. Quietly, he said: "I hope not."

Alfred could hear the despair and exhaustion in the Canadian's voice. Matthew sounded weak, like someone fighting to stay conscious, but his strength was failing him. Unlike Alfred, Matthew couldn't rest in unfamiliar places; he lost his appetite when he was stressed; and he worked himself sick when under orders, even if it was simply: Be a waiter. Matthew had—in Alfred's opinion—an uncontrollable need to please his superiors, such as Arthur and Francis (regardless of the fact that Francis was only Matthew's fake boss). _He's sweet_ , _too polite for his own good_ , _but it's not hard to see why he was recruited to be a soldier_ , Alfred thought. He could feel Matthew's laboured intakes of breath, his body growing heavy. _He's got no self-regard for his own health or safety. Lucky I'm here_ , he smiled privately. _It's going to be okay_ , _Mattie. I'll think of something_. _I'll get us out of here_. _Somehow_.

Just then, three rifle-wielding Frenchmen entered. " _That one_ ," the leader pointed at Matthew. " _He's the one who speaks French._ "

One of the Frenchmen untied the ropes binding the boys together, while another grabbed Matthew under the arms and hauled him up.

"Hey! What do you think you're doing? Don't touch him, you fuckers!" Alfred yelled. Matthew's feverish gaze betrayed his fear, but he didn't speak. "Let him go!"

" _Be quiet_!" snapped the leader, shoving his boot into Alfred's chest. Alfred lost his balance and fell sideways.

"You goddamn motherfuckers! Let him go! Matt!"

The Frenchmen dragged Matthew clumsily to his feet. Discretely, he looked at Alfred and shook his head. It was a warning: _Don't provoke them_. Then he let them march him from the barn.

"Fuck!" Alfred spit as they left. The barn-door closed, leaving the American alone in the dark. "Fuck you!" he yelled, but it was useless. He didn't know what the interrogators would do to Matthew, whose physical state wouldn't be able to withstand torture. _They'll kill him_! Alfred grit his teeth. Whether they determined that Matthew was an Ally or not, they would consider him their enemy and kill him either way.

 _No_ , _they can't. That won't happen_. _Someone will come for us. Arthur will come for us like before. He won't let us get killed_ , _he promised that we'd go home together. We'll get out of here_ , _Mattie. Somehow_.

* * *

 **GERMAN**

Feliciano yawned like a sleepy cat, producing a soft sound not unlike a satisfied purr. The blanket fell off his shoulders as he rolled over, hugging the pillows, which had grown cold in Ludwig's absence. "Hmm—?" he murmured, waking slowly. "Ger—many?" he called, interrupted by a yawn. It was early in the morning, still dark outside. The first rays of dawn were just starting to creep over the horizon with a pale glow. "Germany?" he repeated, pushing himself onto his elbows. Francis' narrow bed was not as big as Ludwig's bed back at headquarters, but it was softer. _Where did he go_? Feliciano wondered, taking the opportunity to peruse the Frenchman's living-space. It was untidy, but not unclean. There was an empty wineglass atop the dresser, using an old postcard as a coaster, beside a pack of Dunhill cigarettes. It was an unremarkable space for the spoiled Italian. However, it was as his naked feet touched the cold floorboards that he wondered: _Where are all my clothes_? His adjutant's uniform—which Ludwig had so enthusiastically relieved him of last night—was nowhere to be found.

Just then, voices spoke from the other side of the door. He recognized one as Ludwig's deep baritone, which sounded angry.

"It's nearly sunrise, Bonnefoi! Where the fuck is my uniform?"

Feliciano pulled a blanket up over his shoulders, cloaking himself in it, and shuffled closer to better hear the Frenchman's hasty reply. A less familiar voice of higher-pitch—the Chinaman—translated Francis' words into German so the two could communicate. Because of that, Feliciano heard each side of the conversation twice. Francis said:

" _Your uniforms are_ , _err... well... on Alfred and Mathieu_... _who have been captured by the Communists_."

"What? You stole my uniform?"

" _Borrowed_!" Francis corrected. " _Borrowed_ , _Capitaine_ , _with every intension of giving it back_ —"

There was a surge of heavy footsteps, a blow, and then a crash as something fell and shattered on the floor. Francis sounded as if the breath had been knocked from his lungs: " _Oof_ —!"

Ludwig shouted: "I'm going to shoot you, Bonnefoi! Ah! Hey! Let go of me, you dummkopf Englishman! I'm going to— _Ouch_! Son-of-a—Who the fuck are you?" he yelled, enraged.

" _Ivan_!" the Chinaman scolded in a language unfamiliar to Feliciano. " _Put Ludwig down right now_!"

The Italian boy waited patiently for the brawl to subside and then cautiously poked his head out the bedroom door. "Germany?" he said, attracting attention. Unabashed by his nakedness, covered only by a blanket, Feliciano left the privacy of Francis' bedroom and ventured across the hall, where everyone was congregating. His presence seemed to soften the others' tempers and they quickly released each other, regaining some semblance of propriety. Francis pinched a bloody-nose as he took the Englishman's proffered hand; a huge, violet-eyed man let go of Ludwig's throat; Ludwig let go of the man's shirt-front; and the Chinaman adjusted the folds of his skirt.

Innocently, Feliciano asked: "What's going on here? Why do the pilots have my clothes and"—he scanned the room—"where are they anyway?"

Before Ludwig or Francis or the Chinaman could reply, however, Yvette pushed open the door from the other side, which led into the kitchen. " _Francis_ , _Francis_! _Monsieur Beilschmidt_ _of the Gestapo is here_ _and he demands to know where the Capitaine is_ —! _Oh_ , _Bonjour Capitaine_ ," she said to Ludwig. " _He wants to see you immediately_!"

Noting the panic on her face, Ludwig looked to Feliciano for a translation. He said: "Gilbert is in the café."

Ludwig paled. "No! I can't go out there like—like _this_!" He indicated himself, naked except for a pair of white undershorts. "He'll be suspicious and ask questions and then, when he finds out that I've been aiding the Allies, he'll shoot me! Bonnefoi, you conniving French bastard, I need my uniform back right now!"

" _I already told you_ , _Capitaine_ , _Alfred and Mathieu have your uniforms and the Communists have Alfred and Mathieu_!"

"Brother!" Gilbert's voice roared suddenly, impatiently.

" _Yvette_ , _you go distract him—_ "

" _But_ , _Francis_ , _what if he shoots me_?"

" _It's a risk I'm willing to take for France_ , _ma petit cabbage_ — _Just go_!" He gave her a peck on the cheek and a little push and she hurried out the kitchen door. " _Buy us five-minutes if you can_!"

"Bonnefoi," Ludwig growled. "If I don't have clothes in five- _seconds_ "—he pressed his Lugar to Francis' head, ignoring the Englishman, who raised a pistol in retaliation—"I'm going to shoot you.

"One," he started.

" _Okay_ , _okay_! _Just give me a minute—_ "

"Two."

" _Feliciano_ ," Francis smiled, failing to conceal his panic. " _There's a basket in the kitchen cupboard under the sink_. _Be a lamb and fetch it for me_ , _won't you_?"

"Three."

Feliciano retreated quickly into the kitchen, dragging the blanket behind him. It swept a cloud of flour, which dusted the floor. "The cupboard under the sink—?" he repeated. "Uh, there's two of them. Which one, which one?" He swung his finger like a pendulum back-and-forth.

"Four."

Feliciano chose the right-side cupboard and snatched the basket from inside. "I've got it!" he called, hurrying back. Spontaneously, he dumped the contents on the tabletop. At first glance they were clothes. Simple, unadorned clothes of cheap quality, but clothes nonetheless. At least Ludwig lowered the Lugar from Francis' temple. Then, as he used the barrel to sift through them, Feliciano realized where he had seen them before. _Uh oh_ , he thought, casting a glance at Ludwig. As if on cue, the German's cheeks reddened in fury.

* * *

Gilbert was not impressed by dark-eyed Yvette's attempts, nor her flirtatious smile, nor her humble cleavage. He was getting _very_ impatient waiting on Ludwig's arrival. The waitress kept avoiding his questions, trying to distract Gilbert from— _What_? _What is going on in this place_? A rock of suspicion sat in the pit of his stomach, making him feel like he was being cheated; undermined. It was not—like embarrassment or rejection—a feeling that he was fond of. _I'm really starting to hate this café_ , he thought in accusation. When Yvette offered to pour him a glass of beer, he refused. When she offered to bring him something to eat, he refused. And when she offered to take him into the boudoir for some, _ahem_ , privacy, he finally lost his temper.

"Okay listen here, Fräulein," he said, squeezing her cheeks together indelicately. He leaned down in threat, intimidating her with an angry red glare. "You're going to go back there and I'm going to count to five and if you don't return with my brother then I'm going to shoot you, okay?"

Yvette nodded vigorously.

"Good," he said, pushing her toward the kitchen. Deliberately, he said: "One."

She dashed off in retreat and Gilbert waited, feeling uneasy. _Where is everyone_? he wondered, scanning the empty café. It was still early, but _Le-Fleur-de-lis_ 's staff should have been busy readying the café for breakfast patrons. Matthew should have been with them. Distracted, Gilbert inched toward the coat-closet and poked his head inside, holding his breath in anticipation, but it was empty. He exhaled a nervous laugh, shaking his silver-white head. _What was I expecting to find_? _Mathieu inside waiting for me to sweep him up like a knight-in-shining-armour and rescue him from this place_? _Just like Cinderella._ He pushed his hair back (unrulier than Ludwig's), and bit his bottom lip to keep from smiling. _It's pathetic how much I want that. I barely know the boy_ , _but I want so badly to see him again._

 _This isn't a fucking fairytale_ , said Logic condescendingly.

 _Well it could be_ , he thought grumpily, _if the cast would just keep to the plot._

"Gilbert," said Ludwig, interrupting Gilbert's internal argument. The sound of his brother's baritone brought him back to reality and reminded him of his purpose.

"Brother, good. I've just received word that the French Communists have attacked a group of Germans near the railroad tracks leaving town. They've captured Private Ken Meyer for sure, but scouts have counted at least three of our German uniforms locked in an abandoned barn about six-miles east of here. We have to act now before the French bastards decide to move elsewhere. I need you to—" Gilbert suddenly stopped. He cocked his head and blinked in confusion. "Uh, little brother—? What the fuck are you wearing? Why are you dressed like a French peasant?"

"Uh, yes..." Ludwig shifted uncomfortably. "You see... it's because I'm, err... undercover. Yes, that's it. I'm disguised as a French grocer in order to infiltrate the French Communist Resistance!"

Gilbert blinked, his wine-red eyes studying Ludwig suspiciously. "You dressed-up in onion-smelling rags like a peasant to spy on the Communists? Ludwig"—his face brightened—"that's brilliant!"

"Yeah—?"

"Yeah! Of course, it's ingenious!"

"Yes, right. I, uh... knew you'd think so," Ludwig smiled. "That's why I did it."

"Alright!" Gilbert clapped his hands together excitedly, unease forgotten. "Here's what we're going to do! You take a troop of soldiers disguised as _grocers_ "—he winked conspiratorially—"and infiltrate the Communists' hideout. I'll take another troop and blockade their retreat in the opposite direction. Those French dummkopfs won't get away from us, brother. Meet me at the town-square in half-an-hour. Ah-ha! We'll get them this time for sure! Nothing gets past the Beilschmidt boys!"

* * *

Yao pressed his ear to the door, eavesdropping on the Germans' conversation.

Francis said: " _What are they saying_?"

Arthur said: " _What are they saying_?"

Ivan said: " _What are they saying_?"

Feliciano stared at his disguised body in a shiny cook-pot, smiling happily as he adjusted Alfred's beret and fluffed his curling hair. The clothes he wore were the cheap articles that Matthew had arrived in a fortnight ago. They had been too big for Matthew's underfed figure then, and Feliciano was practically drowning in them now.

Yao repeated himself in three different languages, finally slipping habitually into agitated Chinese when the others bombarded him with furious questions. He hated playing translator for everyone, especially since don't-shoot-the-messenger seemed like a sentiment neither Francis, Arthur, or Ivan fully grasped. They yelled at Yao instead of at each other, which gave the Chinaman a headache. He was talking so fast, trying to relay everyone's messages, trying to concoct a plan to rescue the boys, that he wasn't comprehending what he was actually saying until Francis said:

" _Can we really trust Ludwig with something this important_? _He didn't want to get involved._ "

Arthur glanced sideways at Feliciano, who wasn't paying attention, and his green eyes narrowed maliciously. " _Yes_ , _he'll do it._ _Just make sure Ludwig understands what will happen if he doesn't_."

Yao heard the café's front door open and close, the bell ringing behind Gilbert as he left. Only then did he signal to the other Allies and they ventured into the dining-room. Ludwig did not look happy. In fact, he looked rather funny (—this coming from an X-year-old Chinaman wearing a knee-high, lacy red dress). Yao snickered. The grocer's clothes, which Alfred had arrived in, were too small for the broad-shouldered, barrel-chested German. The coarse fabric hugged his body skin-tight, sleeves and trouser-legs too short. As the Allies filed out, Francis and Arthur both adopted polite expressions (though Yao saw Francis bite the inside of his cheek to stop from laughing). Ivan, however, who had never seen Ludwig before, grinned like a child in delight. Ludwig glared at them all, red-faced in anger and embarrassment. Francis said:

" _Tell him the plan_ , _Yao_."

Ludwig crossed his arms expectantly, straining the fabric. It was hard for Yao to take the German seriously, but he said: "Here's what you're going to do, Captain Beilschmidt. You're going to do exactly what the Gestapo wants: take your men and infiltrate the French Communists' hideout. But instead of shooting everyone inside, you're going to find the two North American pilots and bring them back alive."

Ludwig was already shaking his head. "You want me to rescue those two boys? No. I'm sorry, but I can't. If I get caught with two Allied pilots, Gilbert will—"

"Shoot you. Yes, we know. But we also don't care. See, if you don't do it"—Yao paused for dramatic effect—"Feliciano might get hurt."

Ludwig inhaled in silent fury. Yao felt a little guilty about threatening Feliciano's safety; the Italian obviously meant a great deal to the German. _I feel like we're cheating_ , he thought, but at least Ludwig wasn't glaring at him. He was glaring at Francis, who stood beside Yao. Between Francis and Arthur, they were determined to rescue the pilots at all costs: hostile-takeovers included. Absently, Yao wondered why. Then he caught Ivan in his peripheral-vision and suddenly he understood the desperation in Arthur's piercing-green eyes and the worry in Francis' blues.

 _Being powerless to help the people you love when they need you is the most terrifying_ _feeling in the world_.

In a deep, challenging voice, Ludwig said: "No. You won't do it, Bonnefoi. You don't have it in you to harm Feliciano."

Francis nodded. " _You're right_ , _Capitaine_ ," he said, holding Ludwig's gaze. " _I probably don't. But he might_."

Ludwig followed the direction that Francis pointed and found Arthur. He was holding a frightened Feliciano by the bicep and pressing his pistol to the Italian's temple. " _Do you really want to play this game with me_ , _Captain_?" he threatened starkly. " _It's a trade_ , _Beilschmidt_ , _my lads for yours_."

Ludwig swallowed. Yao could see him trying to control his temper, trying to keep himself from leaping across the room and strangling Arthur with his bare hands. Feliciano's amber eyes stared beseechingly at him, but he wisely remained silent. He seemed to trust Ludwig, not unlike a damsel-in-distress looking upon her rescuer. Ludwig took a step toward the villainous Englishman, but stopped when Arthur's pistol clicked in threat. His unblinking green eyes seemed to say: _Don't test me_. It was then that Ludwig's physique notably deflated, and grudgingly he said:

"Fine, I'll do it. I'll find those boys and do everything within my power to bring them back alive."

When Arthur didn't so much as blink, Ludwig added: "You have my word."

To Feliciano, he said: "Don't be scared, schatz. Nothing bad is going to happen to you, I'll be back very soon."

Feliciano ignored the pistol and gave Ludwig a small smile. Softly, he said: "I know you will."

* * *

 **ENGLISH**

Alfred pushed himself up onto his elbows, flopping like a fish caught in a net. After several attempts, he had finally succeeded in shimmying his long legs through the loop of his tied arms so that his hands were now clasped in front of him. Early-morning sunlight was starting to shine in through cracks in the barn-boards, but it was still dark. He could see the German sentry lying on his side a few feet away. The man appeared to be sleeping, but Alfred wriggled closer to be sure. His stomach growled loudly as he moved like an inchworm, and vaguely his mind wandered to hamburgers and milkshakes. _If I live through this_ , _I'm never going to eat anything but hamburgers ever again_ , he exaggerated. "Ouch!" His hand landed on a nail in the dark and it stuck deep into his palm. He stopped and pried out the offensive piece of metal with his teeth and spat it on the floor. He tried to alleviate the pain with pressure by sucking his palm; his skin tasted like dirt and blood. "Goddamn it," he growled. _I just want to go home_! Uncomfortably, he resumed his trek toward the unconscious German.

"Hey? Hey, you! Kraut, are you dead?" Alfred lifted his hands, roped together in prayer, and knocked on the German's shoulder. "Hey, wake up."

The German emitted a sad, straggled noise and peeled open his blue eyes. He looked tired and underfed, not unlike Matthew. _How long have you been on guard-duty_? Alfred thought, feeling a shred of sympathy for the sentry. He had always hated guard-duty; it was boring. When the man recognized Alfred, his forehead creased in annoyance.

" _What do you want_ , _Yankee_? _It's your fault I'm here_."

Alfred offered him a lopsided smile. "So you're alive, that's good. I guess. I'm going to use you to get up now."

" _Hey_ , _get off of me_ , _you dummkopf Yankee_!" he complained as Alfred crawled to his feet, using the man as a brace.

Wobbling, Alfred stood. It felt good after being so long on the cold, hard floor. The German looked at him, afraid that Alfred would topple over and crush him. But his expression changed when Alfred leaned down. "Hey, give me your hands and I'll pull you up. Come on, man, I'm not going to bite." Skeptically, the German took Alfred's roped hands and the American clumsily heaved him to his feet. He nodded in thanks, then let go. Alfred said: "What's your name? Your name?"

The German blinked incomprehensively.

"I'm Alfred F. Jones," he indicated himself, pounding his own chest. "Al-fred. What's your name? I can't keep calling you 'Kraut'. I mean, I could, but I don't want to now that we're accomplices."

The German frowned and tapped his own chest, guessing at Alfred's intention. " _Ken_."

"Ken, okay then. Kenny it's time for you and I to get the fuck out of here. I have an idea, but I need your help. Come on"—he began hopping toward the barn-door—"follow the leader, Kenny!"

Sighing, Ken hopped along behind him.

* * *

 **GERMAN**

Ludwig surveyed the small contingency of German soldiers he had chosen to accompany him, all of them dressed as French onion-sellers. _Well_ , _I'm not winning any popularity contests this year_ , he thought, feeling incredibly foolish. Puffing-up his chest (a button flew off his shirt), he cleared his throat to attract attention. "Right then, we're about to infiltrate the French Communists' hideout. It'll be dangerous, but don't lose focus. The objective is to find and rescue the three Germans being held captive in that barn and to shoot as many Communists as possible in the process. Does anyone have any questions?"

A brown-haired boy in the second row lifted his hand.

"Yes, Hans?"

"My disguise smells like week-old onions, sir."

"Yes, Hans. Anyone else? No—? Okay then, let's go."

Ludwig clenched his rifle as he moved stealthily forward, dodging the early-morning light. The breeze was chilling and the grass was wet, but the rain had reduced to a harmless mist. He led the advance, gesturing to his men, who followed. When Hans accidentally bumped into a French guard, he played the role of a drunk onion-seller as well as any stage-actor. The disgruntled Frenchman pointed in the opposite direction, sending him off. The boy pretended to stumble off and then rejoined his German comrades on a nearby hilltop. Ludwig exhaled in relief and he continued onward. _Okay_ , _there's the barn. The pilots should be inside._ "Take the guards," he whispered to his nearest comrades. "I'll check inside." He signalled to those on the hilltop to cover them. "Ready? Now!"

It wasn't long before gunshots exploded and the Germans descended on the French in an ambush of fire and onions. Ludwig could hear the Frenchmen yelling for re-enforcements, but Gilbert's troop could deal with them easily. Ludwig had other priorities: the two pilots. He charged to the barn, jumping over an upturned wagon, and pressed his back to the wall. He raised his rifle in readiness and then kicked the door forcefully open. "Nobody move!" he yelled. And nobody did—because there was nobody there. "Oh, fuck," he said, retreating. _Where are those boys_? If Ludwig returned to the café empty-handed then Feliciano would pay the price for it. The Englishman was a few scones short of a batch in Ludwig's thinking, and he didn't trust him not to take revenge for _his lads_ if Ludwig failed.

Just then, as Ludwig was readying to retreat and search elsewhere, he saw his own stolen captain's uniform making a break for the railroad tracks, hopping as fast as it could.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," Ludwig sighed, and ran after it.

* * *

 **ENGLISH**

Hop faster, Kenny!" Alfred shouted. His legs were killing him and his stomach muscles ached. He hadn't expected the Germans to attack the French Communists so suddenly. Dodging bullets, trying to avoid the crossfire, made searching for Matthew a lot more difficult than anticipated, but Alfred refused to leave without him. _Come on_ , _Matt. Where did they take you_? The buildings were all close together. It was an abandoned farmyard: there were only so many places Matthew could be. Alfred's fervent gaze searched the battlefield, looking for a pale-haired boy in a skin-tight uniform, but it was useless. With the mist and the gun-smoke he couldn't recognize anyone. Then, not paying attention, his foot hit a rock and he lost his balance, falling face-first into the wet grass. "Goddamn it!"

Ken knelt down and tried to tug Alfred to his feet, but he only managed to fall onto his backside.

"This is so fucked-up!" Alfred complained as he struggled to stand. "It's not even—Fuck! Kenny, get down!"

A grenade exploded so close to him that Alfred felt the repercussion of the blast. It knocked him off his feet. It was so powerful that it lifted him right back up—No. That wasn't the grenade. Someone's strong hands hauled him roughly up. At first, Alfred thought that it was Ken, until he saw Ken's mangled corpse lying a few feet away. Alfred's eyes grew wide in disbelief.

"Oh my God!" he yelled angrily. "You killed Kenny! You bastards!"

" _Shut up_! _Do you want everyone to hear your Yankee accent_?" The voice in his ear was undeniably German. " _Stop fighting_ , _Alfred. It's me_ , _Captain Beilschmidt_!"

Alfred whipped around, shocked to find Ludwig holding him up. "What the hell are _you_ doing here, Kraut? I thought you weren't going to—Hey! What are you doing? Put me down!" Alfred kicked (which failed, because his legs were tied together) as Ludwig lifted him over his broad shoulder like a burlap sack of potatoes. "Let me go!" he yelled at Ludwig's backside, encased in skin-tight trousers.

" _Shut the fuck up_!" Ludwig repeated. Holding Alfred one-armed, he slung his rifle over the other shoulder and drew his Lugar instead. " _I'm taking you back to_ Le Fleur-de-lis."

Alfred recognized the café's name. "No, not without Mattie! You've got to go back and get Mattie! Goddamn it, you fucking Kraut!" he screamed. "Let go! I won't leave without Mattie— _Oof_!" Halfway up the hill, Ludwig dropped Alfred. _Yes_ , _finally_! He opened his mouth to speak, but found an oily gag shoved into his mouth. Ludwig tied it tightly around Alfred's head and then lifted the wriggling boy up again. "Nn—!" Alfred felt angry tears fill his eyes.

Ludwig said: " _I'm sorry_ , _but you're making too much noise. I'm taking you back to the café_ , _so_ _don't worry._ _You'll be safe soon_ , _you foolish American. I promise._ "

Terrified, Alfred watched as the barnyard-battlefield disappeared over the hilltop. Ludwig's gait was choppy, but fast. Alfred could see that the Germans were winning the skirmish, chasing the French off like rats. The barn was burning brightly. The fields caught fire and soon smoke cloaked everything in black. It wasn't the rescue that Alfred had been expecting, or—at that moment—one that he wanted. _Mattie_! he thought as Ludwig spirited him to safety. If the French hadn't already shot Matthew, the German's definitely would. Sadly, teardrops fell from Alfred's blue eyes.

Helplessly, he thought: _What am I going to tell Arthur_?

* * *

 **FRENCH**

 **TWO HOURS LATER**

Francis sat perched on the bar counter, clutching a glass of wine that he was never going to finish, watching as Arthur paced the café like a caged beast. The Englishman's fists were clenched and he kept his eyes downcast; he hadn't let go of the pistol. Ivan was standing at the window like a guard-dog, awaiting a sign of the boys' return. Yao was sitting at a table beside Feliciano, who was plucking loose strings from the oversized shirt he wore. Nobody spoke. Not until Ivan banged on the window-glass, and said: " _The German is back_!" Before anyone could stop him, he rushed out to meet Ludwig in the street. Francis raced Arthur for the door, but they got stuck in the frame. On the street, Ludwig dumped a bound-and-gagged Alfred into Ivan's eager, outstretched arms. " _What did you do to him_?" the Russian demanded. He shoved Ludwig off and retreated into the café, cradling Alfred.

" _Alfred_!" Arthur grabbed both of the boy's hands and spontaneously kissed them in parental-like relief. " _Oh God_ , _you're alive_! _Blimey O'Reilly's fucking trousers_ , _Alfred_ , _you're alive_!"

"Oh, Alfred! I'm so glad you're okay," Francis said, kissing the boy's cheeks; affectionately petting his head.

Alfred, however, struggled impatiently in Ivan's embrace. As Arthur untied the gag, Francis watched Ludwig stumble breathlessly into the café. Only then did he realize that the German was alone.

"Ludwig, where is Mathieu?"

Arthur's head snapped up, wide-eyed. Alfred spit out the nasty gag, and said: " _We've got to go back_! _Mattie's still out there—they'll kill him_! _Artie_!" he grabbed the Englishman's shirt with roped hands. " _We have to go back and save him_!"

Afraid of, but unable to comprehend the American's words, Francis stared in confusion. Then Arthur moved. Before Francis could stop him, Arthur had crossed the room and grabbed a handful of Feliciano's hair, forcing a yip of surprise from him as he was tugged roughly to his feet. "Arthur!" Francis started, but the Englishman shoved his gun beneath Feliciano's chin, silencing all arguments. He was seething; but in anger or fear, Francis didn't know. Ludwig talked rapidly, trying to explain the Canadian's absence.

" _Don't hurt Feliciano_! _It's not my fault_ , _I tried to save them both. I saw them climbing the hill together_ , _but before I reached them a grenade exploded and killed the other boy. I'm sorry. I tried to save him_ , _but I was too late. I tried_ , _okay_? _So just stop_! _Don't punish Feliciano for my failure_ , _please_! _I'm sorry_!"

" _What the fuck is he saying_? _Is he confessing_?" Arthur snapped, but his voice had no bite.

 _He's scared_ , Francis recognized.

Both of them looked at Yao for a translation, but Yao looked suddenly uneasy, as if he didn't want to relay Ludwig's message. "Err... Ludwig said that he tried to save both of them," he said, switching between English and French, "but, well... he said that a grenade killed Matthew..."

Francis felt like he had been punched in the stomach, but before he could make a sound, Alfred interrupted:

" _No_! _That's a lie_! _That wasn't Mattie_ , _it was Kenny_!"

A note of confused silence passed. Then Arthur yelled: " _Who the fuck is Kenny_?"

" _The German sentry we jumped on_ ," Alfred explained. He shimmied closer to the table edge, where Ivan had sat him. " _After we were captured by the Commies_ , _they took Matt away. They were going to interrogate him_ , _maybe even torture him_! _I tried_ , _but I couldn't find him. That's why we have to go back_! _We have to save him_!" he urged. " _Before those Commie bastards kill him_!"

Francis listened tensely to Yao's fast translation, piecing the puzzle together via facial expressions. When he had enough to understand that Ludwig was innocent of betrayal, he walked to Arthur's side. "Arthur," he said, laying a hand on the Englishman's tense shoulder. "Let go of Feliciano, it wasn't Ludwig's fault." Cautiously, he took the pistol from Arthur's hand and set it aside. Then he unclenched Arthur's fingers from the Italian's hair. Freed, Feliciano ran into Ludwig's arms, who disregarded his audience and wrapped the frightened boy in an embrace. He held him in relief, speaking quietly to him in German. Arthur's Lincoln-green eyes watched them in simmering silence, like a statue. He didn't seem to notice that Francis hadn't let go of his hand, or that Francis had sandwiched Arthur's hand between both of his, though the Englishman squeezed back absently.

Again—impatiently—Alfred interrupted:

" _Come on_ , _we're wasting time_. _We have to go back. Please_?" His voice cracked. " _Anybody_ —?"

Ivan finished cutting Alfred's bonds and placed a sympathetic hand on the boy's head. Alfred ignored him. His cornflower-blue eyes glanced from person-to-person, harbouring a hopefulness that broke Francis' heart. He, like everyone else, avoided Alfred's pleading gaze. He felt sick thinking about Matthew's fate. If he was alive then he would undoubtedly be in danger. If he was dead—Francis bit his lip and squeezed Arthur's hand tighter.

" _This is all my fault_ ," said Arthur. He was talking to himself, but the café's silence magnified his soft voice. " _I shouldn't have risked it_. _I should've waited until it was safe. It's my fault that he's_ —"

" _Mattie's not dead_ ," said Alfred sternly. The confidence of his words was contradicted by the tears beaded in his eyes, but he soldiered on. He leapt off the table and marched forward until he stood directly in front of Arthur, his fists clenched at his sides. " _If he was dead I would know. We have to go back for him_ , _Artie. He's our brother_ , _maybe not by blood_ , _but by something stronger. I'm not leaving him behind._ " He paused, meeting Arthur's forlorn gaze, and added: " _He would go back for any of us_."

Francis felt Arthur inhale, as if breathing in new-life. Softly, he said: " _Yes_ , y _ou're right_." He released Francis' hands and wiped his eyes, ashamed of himself. He sniffed, pretending to clear his throat to mask the evidence of tears. Francis gave him a hopeful half-smile, which the Englishman hesitantly returned.

In English, Francis said: " _We are... uh_ , _to Mathieu_ —?"

Arthur glanced at Alfred, who smiled.

" _Fuck yeah_ ," he said. " _We're going to rescue Mattie_."

* * *

Matthew's strength failed and his legs buckled. He stumbled and clawed at the patriot in front of him for balance, but the Frenchmen were not sympathetic. "Fuck, get up!" someone yelled, grabbing him from behind. Matthew coughed, short of breath. His throat was so dry it hurt.

"Hurry! Get him up, or the Germans will spot us!" said the leader.

A group of five Communists had escaped the barnyard's wreckage and were now dragging Matthew through the long grass toward the forest, racing the sun. Matthew struggled to keep pace with them. His weak and beaten body just wanted to lie down and sleep. He had exhausted his store of adrenalin and was fading fast, but the Frenchmen were rough. They jostled him, pulling and pushing as they neared the forest. A kilometer back, one of the patriots had asked why they bothered to bring Matthew: "If he's a German, we should shoot him!" Matthew had been gripped by fear, but it quickly deflated into despair. _Why don't they just shoot me_? _Or leave me_? he wondered. But the leader had replied: "Because if he's a spy, which is what I suspect, then he's worth wringing for information." Matthew had been tempted to argue: to remind them that he hadn't talked yet, despite their brutal ministrations, and that he wouldn't talk no matter what they did to him, but he was too tired to say it. He found himself hoping that they would drop him, if only so he could lie down and rest. Just for a minute. When they came to a fence, Matthew's coat—Feliciano's coat—got caught on a wire when he climbed it and tore a hole from hip to sternum, leaving his skin exposed to the elements and throwing him off-balance. He fell onto the grass and closed his eyes. Just for a minute—

A gunshot fired; someone shrieked. It sounded too close. One of the Frenchmen fell to the ground while the other four panicked and drew guns in retaliation. The leader shouted: "Find cover!" He grabbed Matthew's collar and dragged the boy on hands-and-knees through the mud. "Fuck! Get down!" He pushed Matthew's head down seconds before a grenade landed, close enough to hit two more Frenchmen: one died instantly, the other bled-out. Matthew's heart pounded as he crawled as fast as his body would let him. His fingers dug into the cold mud, scraping his palms. Feliciano's uniform ripped, hanging in shreds from his shoulders; his boots slipped and his knees bled. His chest hurt and it was hard to breath. His head spun in circles, making him feel sick. As he crawled, he choked back bile. When a bullet ripped through the back of his calve, he cried-out and collapsed.

"Get up! Goddamn it, get up!" the leader ordered. He tugged Matthew's arm, threatening to pull it from the socket, but Matthew's strength was spent.

" _Over there_! _They're heading for the forest_!"

The sound of German voices scared the Frenchman into retreat. "To hell with you," he said to Matthew, and raced off. His last surviving comrade followed him, swallowed by the dense trees.

Matthew squeezed his eyes shut. He tried to rise, but failed. His injured leg screamed in pain. It felt hot and wet and useless. Too soon, a rifle-barrel poked into his back and he heard German voices talking overhead. _Maybe they'll think I'm dead and leave me alone_ , he hoped. He kept his eyes closed and held his breath as they rolled him onto his back. He felt a callused hand on his naked chest, groping for a heartbeat. Then someone—intentionally or accidentally—kicked his leg and Matthew gasped and his eyes flew open, staring feverishly up at six German soldiers.

" _He's alive_ ," said one.

" _Not for long_ ," said another, leveling his rifle-barrel at Matthew's chest.

" _Is he French_? _Why is he wearing a German uniform_? _Is he a spy_?"

" _He's about to be a dead spy_ ," said the rifle-wielder.

" _No_ , _look here_." The man whose hand was still pressed to Matthew's chest yanked at the exposed chain from around his neck; it snapped. " _He's English_. _No_ , _a Canadian_ ," he reported, holding up Matthew's dog-tags in his fist. " _RCAF_ , _see_?" He stood, making to pocket the dog-tags.

His comrade said: " _Why do you get to keep it_? _I'm the one who's going to kill him. It's my prize_ ," he reached for the chain, but the other avoided him.

" _No. I've got half-a-dozen English and American tags_ , _a few French_ , _and even a Russian's wrist-watch_ , _but I don't have anything from a Canadian yet. I need it to complete my collection_!"

" _Fuck your collection_ , _dummkopf_!" Without warning, the German's boot landed on Matthew's stomach and pressed down, forcing a winded "Ah!" from the boy's lungs. After that, Matthew couldn't catch his breath. He coughed and choked, but it was hard to breathe. The Germans stared down at him expectantly, six of them silhouetted by pale sunlight. The green of their uniforms was unmistakable, but everything else looked grey to Matthew's eyes.

" _He's kind of pathetic_ ," said one. " _It's no wonder we're winning the war. Is this really the best the Allies can do_?" He lifted his boot, leaving a muddy footprint on the boy's stomach. His comrades laughed.

Despite all his training, Matthew was afraid. He felt small and helpless in the Germans' clutches, like he had as a POW. Those German rifles terrified him. _I don't want to die_ , _not like this_. Since being recruited by the military he had imagined this moment dozens of times, awake and asleep. He had seen his death in his nightmares and not once had he ever cried. He always died with his dignity intact. But now that it was finally happening he felt tears bead in his eyes, showing his youth and fragility. He didn't speak or make a sound. He wouldn't beg for his life, but he couldn't help feeling afraid. Afraid for Alfred, whom he prayed was safe. And afraid of disappointing Arthur, who had risked so much to save him. _I'm so sorry_ , he thought, staring helplessly at the German's rifle. A tear fell from his eye and rolled down his cheek; then another; and another.

" _Sorry_ , _kid_." The German aimed the rifle at his heart. " _Today's just not your lucky day_."

Matthew squeezed his eyes shut, anticipating the inevitable shot.

The rifle clicked. " _Auf wiedersehen_ —"

" _STOP_!"

Matthew's heartbeat skipped as he was suddenly scooped into a man's arms and pulled against his chest. His hands were strong and callused, but they grasped Matthew tenderly; tightly. One hand clutched the boy's shoulders while the other protected his head. In surprise, Matthew's eyes flew open, terrified of what he would see. At first it was nothing. A heavy black coat. Then he saw snow-white skin, a scowl, and furious wine-red eyes.

 _Gilbert_ —?

The Gestapo officer was kneeling in the grass, holding Matthew half-cradled in his arms. He had positioned himself so that he shielded Matthew's torso from the rifle.

" _Herr Beilschmidt_ ," said the rifle-wielder in confusion. " _Err... what are you doing_?"

" _What am_ I _doing_?" Gilbert snapped in disbelief. " _For God's sake_ , _lower your guns_! _Now_!" he ordered.

The Germans hastily complied, afraid of disobeying. Immediately, they fell into a line-up: heels together and shoulders straight, each one avoiding their red-eyed leader's gaze. Matthew didn't understand what was happening. His head felt so fuzzy. The whole scene felt so surreal. _Maybe I'm already dead_ , though the throbbing pain suggested otherwise. He bit back a groan as Gilbert lifted him up, holding the boy against his chest like a helpless damsel. _He's really strong_ , Matthew noted absently as his head rested on Gilbert's shoulder. His eyelids fluttered, wanting to close. He tried to focus on Gilbert's angry voice, speaking in German:

" _What the fuck possessed you to hurt this boy_?"

" _Err... but we're supposed to hurt Allied soldiers. It's kind of our job_ , _Herr Beilschmidt_."

" _What_? _What are you talking about_ , _Allied soldier_? _This boy's not a_ —" He stopped when a soldier stepped forward and handed him Matthew's dog-tags.

" _He's a Canadian_ , _sir_ ," the man elaborated when Gilbert failed to reply. " _May I keep his tags_ , _sir_? _Uh_ , _Herr Beilschmidt_ —?"

It felt like a long time before anyone spoke. Matthew involuntarily tensed, wishing that he could understand the conversation, especially since it seemed to centre on him. He chanced a glance at Gilbert's face, unsure whether or not he ought to be afraid. Despite Gilbert's intervention, Matthew's fear of being shot had not subsided. The Gestapo officer looked like someone had struck him across the face, too stunned to speak. He didn't look particularly forgiving. His wine-red eyes stared vacantly at the soldiers in front of him, and his strong hands clutched Matthew possessively. Finally, he said:

" _I'll take him from here_. _You're all dismissed_."

" _But Herr Beilschmidt_ —"

" _DISMISSED_."

His tone was unarguable. Without a backward glance Gilbert turned and strode off, definitively silencing any further protests. The German soldiers obeyed without question and left in the opposite direction, seeking the French. Gilbert stalked silently through the misty morning for half a kilometer before he stopped. He looked contemplative. Matthew didn't speak a word to him, nor did he fight Gilbert's grasp. In truth, he couldn't have fought even if he had wanted to—which he didn't. He just wanted to sleep. Standing on the unpaved road into Nouvion, Gilbert said:

"Mathieu."

Matthew flinched at the growly sound of Gilbert's voice. He was afraid to meet that piercing red gaze, unsure what he would find in it. But, too weak to fight, he looked up—and the red-eyed German smiled at him. "It's okay," he promised in French. His voice was not soft, but it was kind. Carefully, he slipped off his heavy black coat and wrapped it securely around Matthew's cold, beaten body. Gently, he touched the boy's pale cheek. "Don't be afraid, _schatz_. I'm not going to hurt you."

Matthew opened his mouth: "I-I—" He wanted to speak. He wanted to yell and curse and cry. But he didn't. Instead, he looked helplessly up at his rescuer: Gilbert Beilschmidt of the Gestapo—

—and fainted.


	4. Train Of Events

**DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya**

 **AND 'Allo 'Allo! – David Croft & Jeremy Lloyd**

 **THE GREAT UN-ESCAPE**

* * *

 **FOUR**

 **TRAIN OF EVENTS**

Hello, reader-people. My name is Alfred F. Jones, hero of the story so far:

I'm an AAF pilot stuck in German-occupied France. My friend Mattie (RCAF) and I were hiding in a café owned by Francis Bonnefoi until yesterday. Then, during a poorly-executed escape attempt, wherein we disguised ourselves as Krauts, we were mistakenly captured by the French Commies and taken to a secret location as spies. They interrogated us, destroyed our forged travel papers, and took Mattie away. Fortunately, Captain Arthur Kirkland (BEF) has absolutely no qualms about playing dirty to get what he wants, and he successfully blackmailed Captain Ludwig Beilschmidt (Kraut) into rescuing us—uh, me. Beilschmidt literally plucked me from the battlefield and brought me back to _Café Le Fleur-de-lis_ , which has become a stage for many French Resistance plots. Oh! And which is also hiding a Chinese fugitive; an injured Russian ex-spy—who's a damn good kisser; and a priceless Italian portrait. Honestly, I'm glad to be back here, even if I do have to sleep in the loft, but I'm worried about Mattie. I don't want to think that he's dead, but, well—

—we can't find him anywhere!

* * *

 **ENGLISH**

Mattie?" Alfred nudged a mud-splattered corpse with the toe of his boot, sighing in relief when it revealed a stranger's face. The field was littered with rubble and dead bodies, mostly French. Alfred knelt on the hard, smoldering ground, searching the battlefield for Feliciano's uniform. His hands were frozen, shaking. There was mud caked under his fingernails. He was bone-tired, but he persevered. He felt so guilty, as if he was somehow responsible for Matthew's uncertain fate. _I should've fought harder to save him_. _I shouldn't have let them take him away_ , he thought, clenching his hands in regret. Matthew Williams was the brother that Alfred had always wanted but never had. Back in London, they had both promised to survive the war and meet up afterward for a celebratory drink at their favourite pub. They were going to sail back to North America together; they were going to visit each other's homes. Shared experience was incredible in the way it forged bonds between complete strangers; bonds that couldn't be shared with anyone else, and Alfred knew that no matter what happened he would love Matthew forever.

 _We're more than just friends now_ , Alfred thought, determined, _he's my brother. I'm not leaving him here. I promised to take him home_ — _alive or dead._

" _Alfred_?" called Ivan.

Alfred wiped his eyes, leaving a smudge on his cheek. Then he looked over at the Russian, who was holding a blonde corpse by the collar.

" _Matvey_ , _da_ —?" he asked.

Alfred sighed. "No, Ivan. That one's not Matt either." Ivan, who hadn't spent much time with Matthew in the café, was having a hard time remembering what the Canadian looked like. "It's not him," Alfred repeated, shaking his head. Ivan shrugged and dropped the corpse indelicately.

" _That's good_ ," said Francis, smiling hopefully. "It is good, _oui_? Mathieu, uh... _non_." He pointed to the corpse.

It was considerate of Francis to try to speak English ( _very_ begrudgingly), especially since he seemed to get all angry and bothered when Alfred or Arthur tried to speak French. " _Oh_ , _just forget it_! _Your words are wrong and your accents are horrible_! _I can't understand a thing you're saying_! _Just stop it_! _Stop butchering my beautiful language_!" he would say, which Alfred assumed meant something along the lines of: "It's so lovely of you to try to speak French, but don't worry about it. I'll speak English instead." English was the easier language, after all, in Alfred's opinion.

Arthur joined the group, looking haggard. He was thin, pale, and had dark half-circles of fatigue beneath his green eyes. "I can't find any bloody sign of him and I honestly don't know if that's a good thing or not. If he's not here, then—Oh, fuck! Jerries!" He dragged Alfred into a ditch, followed by Francis. " _Pst_ , Ivan!" he snapped, gesturing wildly at the confused Russian. "It's the Germans, get down!" Alfred waved at him and Ivan joined them, grunting as he laid flat on his stomach. "Where the bloody-hell is Yao?" Arthur wondered, but received no reply.

The foursome laid together in the ditch as a German lorry rumbled past. Alfred held his breath, too proud to admit to fear, but too afraid not to feel it. The Germans were efficient; you had to give them that. Their patrols ran like clockwork. Alfred clenched his hands, tight-fisted and tight-lipped as they waited for the engine's growl to pass. As an AAF pilot, he had always fought the Germans from a distance, never coming into direct contact with enemy soldiers. But his short time as a POW had changed that. Since then, it seemed he had done nothing _but_ hide from the Germans, which made him equal parts angry and scared (and ashamed of being scared).

Then Ivan's hand landed upon Alfred's and squeezed in reassurance. When Alfred met his gaze, the Russian smiled. As an agent of the NKVD, Ivan had spent most of his military career operating within enemy territory, and his experience and confidence made Alfred feel a fraction better about their situation, as if the Russian was saying: _Don't worry_ , _Al. There's nothing to be afraid of. I've done this hundreds of times before_.

(Alfred spent a lot of time guessing what everyone else was saying and thinking. He liked putting words into other people's mouths. It made them more relatable.)

By the time the danger passed, the patrol truck heading into town, Alfred felt considerably calmer. If not less afraid, than grateful at least that he wasn't alone.

Arthur stood, brushing wet grass off himself. "This is bloody ridiculous. I'm sick of having to take cover every time the Jerries go by. If they catch us, we'll all be shot! It's because we're too close to the railroad tracks," he guessed, eyeing the iron rails antagonistically. "They've been patrolling it like vultures since yesterday. They must be expecting supplies."

"Or re-enforcements," Alfred suggested. He pointed to the tracks. "It's the fastest way to move troops and artillery throughout France. It's a shame you people lost it to the Krauts," he added in afterthought.

"I wish someone would just blow the bloody thing up," Arthur grumbled, ignoring Alfred. "At least then no one could use it."

Alfred climbed gracelessly out of the ditch, accepting Ivan's hand in assistance. "So why don't we?" he asked.

"What?"

"Blow-up the railway. A little nitroglycerin would do it."

"Oh, and you just happen to have an arse-full of nitroglycerin, do you, Alfred?"

"No," said Alfred tartly, "but I bet the Resistance could get their hands on enough to blow the tracks."

Arthur frowned thoughtfully.

Francis glanced nervously from Alfred to Arthur, and said: "Uh, nitroglycerin—?"

Alfred nodded. "To blow the tracks."

"Blow—?" Francis repeated uncertainly. He glanced at Ivan, who shrugged unhelpfully.

"Yeah, blow. You know—KA-BOOM!" said the American, making sound-effects and miming an explosion.

" _Ah_ , _yes. I get it now. Nitroglycerin._ KA-BOOM." Francis nodded, looking uneasy.

"BOOM—?" Ivan cocked his head and smiled, as if he liked the sound of it.

He was interrupted by Arthur's muttering, growing louder: "Yes, yes that just might work. Yes!" he repeated confidently. "It's actually perfect! The railroad is a key aspect of the Jerries' success. If it's damaged, then they'll have to redirect their efforts to repair it. They won't risk losing it. And if they're busy working on the tracks, then they won't be guarding the water! I'll contact the French Resistance and arrange for a boat to collect you and Matthew as soon as possible to take you back to England!"

"Uh, yeah. That sounds great, Artie," said Alfred in support, "except that we don't know where Mattie is."

"Oh. Right." Arthur deflated like a popped-balloon.

" _Mathieu_ —?" Francis asked in concern. He was getting frustrated; he disliked being left out. ( _Where the heck is Yao_? Alfred thought.) The Frenchman glanced between the two Anglophones, wondering at their conversation. " _I don't like the look on your faces any more than I like the word nitroglycerin_ ," he admitted, crossing his arms. " _What is this going to cost me if you fail another escape attempt_?"

Arthur ignored him. "If we blow-up the railroad then we can search for Matthew unhindered," he justified. "I won't send you back without him, Alfred. I promise."

Alfred smiled gratefully. "I know Mattie's alive, Artie. I can feel it. I just hope that wherever he is, he's safe."

* * *

 **FRENCH**

Matthew felt weightless. He dreamt of flying, of soaring high above the earth like a bird-of-prey, riding the wind. His hands held the joystick, fingers tingling as he guided the plane's accent. His heart raced in anticipation as the wings cut through a blanket of pillow-soft clouds and opened into the world beyond. It was invigorating; mystifying. He felt privileged as he spied the world from a vantage few would ever see; more privileged than the richest, most powerful of men. _They might be worth millions of dollars_ , he thought dismissively, _but I have something worth even more. This feeling_ , _this view._ He laughed freely, like a happy-go-lucky child. _It's freedom_. He breathed in deeply, savouring the sweet taste of it. He hadn't felt so peaceful in months. _I wish I didn't have to come down. I wish I could stay up here forever_.

Matthew woke slowly. He nuzzled the pillow beneath his head, which maintained a hint of masculinity under the heavy scent of laundry-soap. It smelled familiar, but his brain was too sleepy to realize why. The weight of several blankets was comforting, like a cocoon fending off the cold, and the mattress beneath him, though firm, yielded gently to his limp body. He felt tired, but in the way one feels tired when trying to shake off the last remnants of sleep. As he roused, peeling his eyes open, he surveyed his surroundings. It was not _Café Le Fleur-de-lis_. He was lying in a double-bed with an artful headboard and curtains that closed around it. Beside it sat a small table with a lamp, which glowed quietly, illuminating a spacious room of moderate comfort. The owner was someone of importance who liked things orderly. It was meticulous in tidiness. There were few personal items or articles left lying about to reveal his character. But as Matthew pushed himself gingerly up onto his elbows, blinking groggily, he spotted a shelf of German books; a framed newspaper clipping that praised the Third Reich; a jar of polishing wax set on the table beside a shiny Lugar; and a long, black overcoat hanging off a chair. There was a black-and-silver medal—an Iron Cross—stuck to the collar, and a badge on the sleeve that showed an eagle atop a swastika with the initials SD.

Geheime Staatspolizei.

 _The Gestapo_.

Matthew leapt out of bed and gasped as a shooting pain pierced his left leg. It throbbed from the knee down. In shock, he lost his balance and stumbled inelegantly to the table, which he grabbed for support. The pain struck a chord of memory: gunshots and the taste of blood and mud and tears. Suddenly, he remembered everything that had happened. _How did I get here_? he wondered, his heart racing. _And where_ is _here_? It was then, as he clutched sleeves that were too long for him, that he noticed the absence of Feliciano's uniform. He was wearing a pale cotton nightshirt and shorts, which bared his legs and revealed a linen bandage wrapped expertly around his injured calve. _What the_ —? He spotted his reflection in a small mirror. _I look like the ghost of a hospital patient_. The only colour that stared back at him came from the bruises on his face and the violet of his petrified eyes.

Then the chamber door opened.

In reflex, Matthew grabbed the Lugar and aimed directly at the intruder's chest, but Gilbert didn't flinch. He barely looked surprised to find the boy out of bed. He closed the heavy door and locked it behind him, trapping the wide-eyed Canadian inside. Then the silvery Gestapo officer faced him formally, and said in thickly-accented French:

"Hello, Mathieu. I'm glad you're awake."

"S-stay there!" Matthew gripped the gun tightly. His voice shook. "Don't come any closer! I-I'll s-shoot you!"

Gilbert cocked his head. "You're trembling, _schatz_. Are you cold? Or afraid—?"

Matthew swallowed. He couldn't read Gilbert's intent. The German had been so kind to him at the café. _But that was before he knew who I really am._ Now it seemed like he was deliberately toying with his captive. Those wine-red eyes—which Matthew had secretly thought so pretty before—were staring softly at him now in mock-concern. _Was it all just an act_? _But he saved my life. Why would he save me if he wanted to hurt me_? _Unless_... Matthew considered the setting. Gilbert hadn't returned Matthew to the café, after all; he had brought him to the German headquarters, which could only mean bad things for the pilot. He had heard nightmarish stories about German experiments... _But if that's my fate then why aren't I in a cell_? _Why am I here in his... bedroom... What does he want from me_? he thought in panic. Unable to hold Gilbert's intimidating gaze, his eyes darted from side-to-side, expecting a trap.

"W-Where am I?" he demanded, his voice betraying him. "W-what have you done to me?"

"You're scared," Gilbert decided. He held up his hands in a non-threatening pose. "And you're sick. It's okay, _schatz_. I'm not going to hurt you—"

"Stay back!" Matthew warned as Gilbert stepped nearer. His heart was pounding. The gun-barrel quivered in his grasp, his hands shaking. He felt dizzy; faint. "Please don't come any closer."

Gilbert ignored the request. He advanced on Matthew like a wolf slowly cornering its prey. The Canadian felt the table's edge behind him as he retreated; surrounded by stonewalls, like a fox trapped in a cage. Fearlessly, Gilbert advanced until the Lugar's clean barrel pressed to his chest, his hungry wine-red eyes staring shamelessly down at the frightened boy.

"I-I'll s-shoot you," Matthew said weakly.

"No, you won't."

Without warning, Gilbert placed his strong hand over Matthew's and squeezed the trigger. Matthew flinched in surprise. _Click_ —!

The gun was empty.

When Matthew lifted his head, Gilbert was staring expectantly at him.

The Canadian relaxed his grip in defeat and let Gilbert take the gun and place it on the tabletop. He searched the German's angular face for a shred of intent, but, like his living-quarters, his expression was vague and unreadable. His sharp features revealed nothing except an intense gaze and an unnerving smile. It frightened Matthew more than he wanted to admit. He felt very small in Gilbert's presence; figuratively and physically. The German was one of the few people who was taller than he and Alfred. He was smaller in stature than, say, Ivan or Ludwig, but he was healthy and strong and had an aura that emanated self-confidence. His entire being seemed to mirror the powerhouse which was Germany. He even held himself arrogantly; though, it seemed to be an unconscious posture. He was a proud man. In contrast, Matthew's weakened state reflected the struggles of the severed Allies: hungry, sick, and desperate. But as the seconds ticked by and the German merely stood there, the boy's fears began to abate. Gilbert's lack of aggression reignited a spark of courage in Matthew, and defiantly he lifted his chin.

"I won't talk," he snarled fiercely. "I won't tell you anything about the Allies, so you might as well just kill me now. I'm no use to you." Gilbert's thin eyebrows relaxed a fraction, but he didn't speak. He stared curiously at the boy. Louder, Matthew said: "I won't ever give you what you want!"

"What I want," said the German carefully, "is for you to trust me."

Matthew repressed a mirthless laugh. "And why the hell should I do that? I'm a Canadian soldier, you're the Gestapo. You—"

"—saved your life," he interjected deliberately. "I wouldn't have brought you here and bandaged you up if I was planning on torturing you for information, Mathieu."

The surrender in Gilbert's voice took Matthew off-guard. Hearing his first-name (albeit, the French version) spoken so kindly by the stark German was oddly comforting. That single word combined with Gilbert's disarming yet playful—mildly condescending—smile made Matthew reconsider his intensions. More than anything, it confused him.

"Then why _did_ you bring me here?" he asked suspiciously.

"Because, believe it or not, _this_ ," Gilbert gestured to the chamber, his private-quarters, "is the safest place for you right now. Nobody will find you here. Nobody will even look for you here."

"And that's supposed to be reassuring?" Matthew asked, his hope of rescue fading.

"For now, yes. You're weak and injured, Mathieu. You've got no plan, and no allies. You're in no condition to fight your way out. And even if you were, you couldn't. You'd be shot before you even reached the gates. It's not worth it; you know it's not. So please... just let me help you."

To his horror, Matthew's eyes filled suddenly with tears. "W-why?" he asked in a pitiful whisper. "Why me?"

"Because," Gilbert said, gently now, "I'm not the villain you think I am.

"I don't mean for this to sound like a threat, Mathieu, but right now I'm the only thing standing between you and a firing-squad. If you walk out that door, they'll shoot you dead, and I..." He paused; licked his lips nervously. "I would be very upset if they did. You don't have to like me, okay? You don't even have to agree with me. But I hope that you'll trust me." In good-faith, he offered his hand.

Matthew stared at him for a long, uncertain minute, trying to comprehend what was being proposed to him; trying to calculate his chances of escape; trying to decide what to do. He tried, unsuccessfully, to think of what Arthur or Alfred would've done in the same situation, but he couldn't imagine either one of them ever getting themselves into such a compromising position. More than anything, he wanted to survive.

But in the end, it wasn't survival-instinct or logic or courage that made him take the German's proffered hand. It wasn't even fear. Matthew didn't know why he reached forward and let Gilbert envelope his hand, but as soon as he did he felt lighter, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and something in him inherently knew that he had made the right choice.

"Okay," he said quietly.

Gilbert smiled—a very nice smile—and escorted him back to bed, supporting his weight. Matthew clenched his teeth to keep from whining, but his leg throbbed and his head pounded. He felt very dizzy. Of course, that could've been the heat. His skin was feverishly-hot, yet he was shivering. Absently, he squeezed Gilbert's hand, grateful for his assistance. It had been a long time since he had felt safe with, well—anyone, anywhere. As he crawled back into the bed, he wasn't sure if it was good or bad-luck that had brought him to Gilbert Beilschmidt, but he took comfort in the immediate security of the Gestapo's protection. The powerful man was a shield against everything that threatened to hurt him, and, just then, that was enough. He even managed a timid smile as he dislodged Gilbert's lingering hands.

"I'm sorry," he said, feeling guilty now. "About the gun, I—"

"Forget it. Just rest and recover your strength." Gingerly, Gilbert touched his hand to Mathew's flushed face. It was gentle but clumsy, the touch of someone nervous to play caretaker. "You have a fever," he reported needlessly. "I'll bring you medicine soon, but for now you need sleep."

Lying down, Matthew's eyes began to close of their own accord. His eyelids felt so heavy. And the touch of Gilbert's cool hand felt good. "How long have I been asleep for already?" he wondered. He didn't realize that he had spoken aloud, until Gilbert replied:

"Sixteen hours."

Matthew's eyes flew open in shock. "So long—?" He thought of his friends and comrades at _Café Le Fleur-de-lis_ with a pang of regret. "They must think I'm dead."

Fortunately, Gilbert didn't inquire who _they_ were. One-handed, he pulled the blankets up to cover the young Canadian, and said: "Never-mind that now. You're safe, that's what matters. I'll protect you, I promise, so don't worry, _schatz_. Just sleep," he ordered.

 _Yes_ , _sir_ , Matthew thought deliriously.

In an instant, the Canadian soldier stopped fighting the fatigue that overwhelmed him and slipped easily into unconsciousness. It happened so fast, he fell asleep with Gilbert's strong, comforting hand still pressed to his cheek.

* * *

 **ENGLISH**

This is taking too long," Arthur sighed impatiently. "We don't exactly have time to waste."

"Yeah? Tell that to the guy who broke the radio," said Alfred sarcastically. "Oh, wait a minute, that was _you_."

Arthur frowned at the focused American. Alfred was bent-over the tabletop, which was covered in metal and electrical bits belonging to the shattered radio (which Arthur had angrily hurled at the wall the night before). He and Ivan were trying to repair it to working order, but it was proving to be a slow, tedious process. Admittedly, Alfred was very good with his hands. He worked on the electric mechanism, while Ivan engineered a way to put the radio's frame back together. They were sitting in the café's kitchen, no longer afraid of being spotted by Ludwig. Arthur was nursing a cuppa tea as he waited anxiously for Francis and Yao to return. Both had been sent to buy spare parts, which Arthur had—unintentionally—destroyed beyond repair. He regretted his quick temper ( _blasted emotions_!), and felt bad as he watched the American and Russian work. They were an odd pair, but they worked well together. When Ivan held out his hand, grunting in incomprehensible Russian, Alfred instinctively handed him the correct tool. Arthur tapped his fingers on the countertop, wishing that he hadn't smoked his last cigarette.

Francis and Yao returned at half-two in the afternoon, just as Maria produced a French maid's uniform.

Yao took one look at the white frills and crossed his arms defiantly. "I am _not_ wearing that thing," he refused.

" _Oh_ , _yes you are_ ," Francis argued. " _Once we've contacted the Résistance Française to request nitroglycerin_ , _we'll need a neutral place to make the exchange. The hotel across town is perfect_. _It's inconspicuous._ _We'll just need someone on the inside_ _whom the Résistance already knows. That's you_ , _Yao. It'll be simple once you're there_ —"

" _No_ , _it won't_!" Yao stomped his boot firmly. It had been less than twenty-four hours since he had traded the red dress for trousers, and it seemed that he was hesitant to accept the new disguise. " _I am not putting that frilly thing_ _on_!" he repeated. _"Why can't I just be a bellhop or something_? _Why does it always have to be women's clothes_ , _huh_? _Do I look like a fucking woman to you_?" he shouted angrily.

The room was quiet for a minute, it's occupants exchanging a look of guilty consensus. Yao bristled in insult.

" _No_ , _of course you don't_ ," Francis lied. " _It's only because nobody will pay any attention to you as a maid_." He ignored Yao's snide comment about the reputation of French maids, and held the uniform up to the Chinaman's slim shoulders, measuring the fit like a tailor. Yao shuffled to the side, trying to escape the lace and frills, and glared irately at Ivan and Alfred who were both snickering. Francis said: " _No one will question your being at the hotel so late if you're wearing a maid's uniform_. _With luck they won't talk to you at all_ , _especially if you pretend that you don't understand French_ ," he advised.

"Come now," said Arthur in lazy amusement, "be a sport, Yao, ol' chap. I think it's rather fetching."

"Fuck-off, Kirkland," Yao spat unhappily. He snatched the maid's uniform and disappeared into the boudoir, slamming the door behind him. His voiced seeped beneath the door, cursing in rapid Chinese.

Francis took the spot beside Arthur and lit a cigarette. He stared absently at Alfred and Ivan as they worked, his attention elsewhere. He could have been a model, Arthur thought secretly. He had the right in-vogue kind of looks, but, more than that, he had the right attitude. There was something decidedly artistic about Francis Bonnefoi that the others lacked; something beautiful and oddly mild. _He's the only one of us who's not a soldier_ , Arthur acknowledged. _He's the only one of us who didn't choose this._ When Francis caught the Englishman looking at him, Arthur feigned indifference and plucked the lit cigarette from his long-fingered hand. He took a drag and then blew-out smoke into the Frenchman's face. Francis rolled his eyes, and, confident that nobody would understand him, said:

" _You're infuriatingly sexy when you do that_ , _you know._ "

"Ah-ha!" Alfred shouted in triumph. He raised his hand for a high-five, but Ivan only blinked. Chuckling, the American grabbed the Russian's hand and held it up, then slapped it in celebration. Ivan gave Alfred a crooked smile. "It's fixed," Alfred announced happily. The radio sat on the table, looking like a child's tinker-toy with pieces missing and wires sticking out of it. It crackled with white-noise.

"Cracking stuff," Arthur complimented, crushing out Francis' cigarette. "Let's just hope someone answers."

* * *

 **GERMAN**

Gilbert was sitting at the table polishing his medal, a quiet Austrian tune playing on the gramophone, when Matthew's hand unexpectedly touched his shoulder. He hadn't even heard the Canadian get up. He had been sleeping for hours.

"Herr Beilschmidt?" he said shyly, staring down at Gilbert with those big violet eyes. His eyelashes were long and pale and brushed his cheekbones when lowered. His cheeks were flushed and his lips were invitingly puckered. Kitten-soft curls framed his artful face, tumbling in a cascade past his chin. Gilbert's eyes inadvertently followed the decline of Matthew's neck, roving over his exposed skin. He had an arching collarbone and delicately-defined muscles that sloped into a flat stomach and shapely hips, left bare. The cotton shirt he wore was unbuttoned and hung off of willowy shoulders that revealed a whisper of malnourishment. His long legs, which Gilbert had so carefully bandaged, were on blatant display as he shifted. Absently, he bit his bottom lip as he awaited Gilbert's reply.

"I, uh— _ahem_ —yes? What is it, schatz?" he asked, trying to look sensitive. He could feel blood pounding in his ears.

Matthew tipped his head, curls tumbling against his cheeks. "I can't sleep. Not anymore. I keep seeing such horrible things," he admitted. He glanced coyly at Gilbert.

"Oh? Well, you look"—his eyes ravaged the boy—"much better."

"It's not sleep I need. It's not sleep I want."

As he spoke, Matthew placed his hands on Gilbert's shoulders and climbed onto the German's lap, straddling him. He deliberately rocked forward, pressing his groin to Gilbert's bony hips. Gilbert couldn't swallow the groan that escaped him. The Canadian smiled devilishly. He moved his hands to the column of Gilbert's neck and traced enticing circles with his thumbs. He leaned in close, nearly nose-to-nose and sighed, " _Mm_." Lips lingering just above Gilbert's, he whispered:

"I want you, _Herr Beilschmidt_."

Gilbert's heart pounded as he eagerly seized Matthew's lips, yielding to the Canadian's touch. The teenager's tongue tasted sweet, like maple-sugar, but his technique was undeniably of French origin. The boy pressed himself to Gilbert with the force and fearlessness of someone who knew exactly what he was doing. It was more than the German had bargained for. Simply kissing the boy made him hungry for more. An electric surge of desire pulsed through him, urging him to indulge. Greedily, he groped Matthew's body, encouraged by his soft, breathless voice. The Canadian wriggled out of his shirt, and then relieved Gilbert of his. Chest-to-chest, he snaked his arms around the German's neck and moaned: " _Mm_ , _Gil..._ " Gilbert's hand dropped to Matthew's thighs and slipped beneath his shorts, drawing their lower-bodies snug together. He moved his lips to Matthew's neck and sucked as he undressed him, tugging at the fabric voraciously. " _Oh_ , _please_ , _Gilbert_. _I want you so bad. Please_... _I need you. I love you_ ," Matthew confessed as Gilbert lifted him onto the tabletop, knocking everything else aside. The boy wrapped his legs around the German's waist and unbuckled his trousers, which fell heedlessly to the floor. Naked, Gilbert growled in hunger. His whole body was feverishly hot; his erect cock ached in weeping anticipation. The sight of Matthew's taut, white body beneath him, writhing and whining from Gilbert's erotic ministrations, was overpowering. But he wouldn't take advantage of the helpless boy—no matter how desperately he wanted to. No. He had to be absolutely, positively certain.

Mustering every fibre of his fleeting self-control, Gilbert leaned down and pressed a chaste kiss to Matthew's lips. "Are you sure?" he asked hopefully.

Matthew cupped his cheek, lips red and swollen and parted. " _Yes_ ," he whispered, looking up at the German in pure adoration. " _Yes_ , _I want you_ , _Gil. I need you. I love you. I love you so much. You're my white-knight_ , _Gilbert. Gilbert—_

* * *

GILBERT!"

Gilbert awoke so suddenly that he fell off his chair. He landed on the floor with a thud, his heart pounding as he blinked sleep from his eyes. Then he spotted Matthew's figure lying in his bed, dead-asleep, and he sighed in relief (and disappointment). It had only been a dream.

"Gilbert!" Ludwig called, banging on the door.

Gilbert crawled clumsily to his feet, acutely aware of the erection tenting his trousers. _Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._ "Uh, just a minute!" he called as loudly as he dared. He didn't want to wake Matthew; it would be too awkward. He doused his face in ice-cold water and then hurried to the door.

"Oh. Hey there, little brother, what's up?" he said, feigning nonchalance.

Ludwig shook his head. He looked tired. "It's bad, Gil. I just received a message about..." He stopped, staring curiously at Gilbert. "Uh, Gil? Why is your face so red?"

"N-no, it's not!" Gilbert gasped defensively. "I mean, uh, this is just how my face looks! I don't come barging into your room making fun of your looks, do I? I'll thank you to extend me the same courtesy!" His heart was racing.

Ludwig blinked, unconvinced. " _What_? Is something wrong, Gil?"

"I, uh, well..." Gilbert glanced over-the-shoulder nervously. Then he met Ludwig's penetrating doubt, and he sighed. "Can you keep a secret, Lud?"

* * *

Oh my God, you didn't," said Ludwig, staring down at the sleeping Canadian. (Gilbert was grateful he hadn't woken.)

"I rescued him," Gilbert justified, reaching down to brush back an errant pale-blonde curl.

"You kidnapped him!" Ludwig corrected, slapping at Gilbert's hand.

Matthew murmured softly and buried his nose in a pillow. Gilbert silently nodded to the opposite side of the chamber, dragging Ludwig with him.

Ludwig grabbed his brother's lapels and shook him roughly. "What the hell have you done, Gil?" he asked in a bewildered whisper. "He's not a stray dog, he's a fucking soldier! He's one of the Allies! He's an enemy! There are a lot of people out looking for that boy!"

"Who? What people?" Gilbert asked, feeling suddenly defensive.

Ludwig shook his head, back-tracking quickly. He released Gilbert. "Never-mind _who_. The point is, you can't keep him. If anyone finds out that he's here, you'll be shot! I'll be shot! Feliciano will be shot—!"

"Please, Ludwig!" Gilbert snatched Ludwig's broad shoulders, their positions switched. "Don't tell anyone! I know that it's dangerous, but I—I think I'm in love with him!" he burst rashly.

Ludwig slapped a hand over his eyes. "Oh, God."

"I can't let him go back, Ludwig, he'll get hurt," Gilbert continued, red-faced in embarrassment. "It's not safe out there. He's safe in here. I can keep him safe."

" _Why_ , Gil?" Ludwig groaned in defeat. "Why did it have to be one of the Allies?" The Gestapo officer had the decency to look sheepish, at least, but Ludwig dismissed his defense. "Never-mind, let's just put _that_ "—he gestured to Matthew—"on hold for a minute. We have a bigger problem. The General is coming to Nouvion. He'll arrive tomorrow night. He's been dispatched directly from Berlin, from the Führer," he emphasized.

Gilbert's flushed face paled. "What? But why?" he asked incredulously. "What for?"

"That's above my pay-grade," Ludwig shrugged. "I hope that he's only passing through, but, regardless, he'll probably do an inspection while he's here."

"An inspection?" Gilbert's eyes strayed worriedly to Matthew.

"Of the railway," Ludwig clarified.

"Oh, right."

Just then, Matthew whined softly in sleep. It caught Gilbert's attention, like a watch-dog. Ignoring Ludwig's disapproval, he went to the bedside and gently touched Matthew's warm forehead. The boy's eyes were squeezed shut, like someone experiencing a nightmare. It happened often; Matthew slept fitfully. _Fever-dreams_ , Gilbert had thought. But maybe they weren't. Maybe they were nightmares; memories of what the Canadian had seen. Gilbert pitied him.

"It's okay, schatz," he said, stroking Matthew's head. "You're safe here. I'm here. It's okay—"

" _Al_ ," Matthew whispered. Unconsciously, he reached out in search of something—or some _one_ —and became distressed when he found the bed empty. " _Al_ , _where are you_..."

Gilbert felt like he had been sucker-punched. _Al_ —?

"Gil?" said Ludwig. He clapped Gilbert's shoulder fraternally. His look was sympathetic, yet he avoided eye-contact, like a man hiding guilt. But Gilbert didn't notice. "That boy doesn't belong here. He's scared and confused. He doesn't know where he is, or who you are. There are people out there looking for him. People who care about him. Let me take him back to—"

"No."

"Brother—"

"No," Gilbert repeated sternly. "It's too dangerous."

"Keeping him here is what's dangerous," Ludwig insisted. "If he tries to leave and he's caught..." He eyed his brother, letting the threat linger. "His being here puts you at risk, which puts _me_ at risk. If the General finds out while he's here, we'll both be shot! Please, Gil, just let me take him back to—"

"No!" Gilbert snapped, losing patience. "I know I can't keep him forever, Lud. I'm not stupid. But right now I hold the most powerful position in Nouvion. If I can't keep him safe, who is it you think can?"

When the captain failed to reply, the Gestapo officer squared his shoulders and soldiered on:

"I'm only asking for your discretion, brother. I just need you to turn a blind-eye and pretend you don't know anything. Please, Lud. This is important to me. I feel like I'm meant to protect Matthew. I mean, haven't you ever felt like..." Gilbert stopped and glanced down, his cheeks reddening in embarrassment. He had never began a sentence with words of emotion before. The Beilschmidt brothers did not share their feelings with, well—anyone. Certainly not with each other. Blatant displays of emotion was a sign of weakness and was unacceptable by Vater's stern standards. Gilbert felt ashamed of himself, but he was surprised when Ludwig quietly said:

"Yes, I have felt..." He, too, left the feeling unvoiced. He sighed deeply. "Alright, Gil," he sighed in surrender. "I'll keep your secret. Just... please be careful."

* * *

 **FRENCH**

 **ONE DAY LATER**

Matthew is alive," said Feliciano.

Francis dropped his lit cigarette, then had to quickly stomp it out. "What, really? Oh, thank God!" he gasped in relief. He glanced quickly at Ludwig for confirmation. The captain nodded. "How do you know? Where is he now?" he asked eagerly.

" _What is it_? _What's going on_?" Arthur demanded, recognizing Matthew's name. He hurried to flank Francis, ashen-faced in fatigue. " _Do they know something about Matthew's whereabouts_? _Are they offering assistance_? _Are they threatening us_? _Oh_ , _bloody-hell. Yao_!" Arthur snapped his fingers, like a restaurant patron demanding service.

Yao appeared begrudgingly, looking rather sullen in a frilly, off-the-shoulder maid's uniform that hugged his delicate figure and exposed his slender, hose-covered legs. Ludwig snorted when he spotted the Chinaman, then tried to convert it into a grunt to clear his throat. " _Yes_?" Yao growled in displeasure.

" _Feliciano_." Arthur waved between he and the Chinaman, indicating that they should communicate. Francis inched closer to listen.

"Matthew is alive," said Feliciano in French.

" _Matthew is alive_ ," Yao repeated in English.

"He's with Capitano Beilschmidt's brother, Herr Gilbert," Feliciano continued. Yao parroted him as fast as he could, but Arthur still received the message a second behind Francis.

"The Gestapo!" Francis shrieked.

" _The Gestapo_!" Arthur gasped.

Ludwig heaved a frustrated sigh. He, too, looked tired.

"It's okay!" Feliciano raced on, raising his hands in a soothing gesture. "He's safe," he explained. "He's safer than you are, actually. He's got a bit of a fever and he's injured, but he's being very well taken care of, so don't worry. He's under Herr Gilbert's protection. No one else knows he's there. It's a secret."

"Are you sure?" Francis asked skeptically.

" _Can you guarantee that no one will touch him_?" Arthur added.

"Oh, uh, well..." Feliciano glanced haltingly at Ludwig.

Ludwig rolled his eyes. " _Not if Gilbert gets his wish_ ," he grunted.

"Uh... we can definitely guarantee that no one will _hurt_ him," Feliciano finished, smiling brightly; innocently.

The two Allies noticeably relaxed.

" _Okay_ , _I suppose that's good enough for now_ ," said Arthur obliviously.

"That makes me feel a little better, at least," said Francis, smiling.

Feliciano's lip quirked involuntarily, but he managed to keep quiet.

Just then, Alfred poked his head into the café's dining-room, which was empty of patrons. (It was very late.) "We finally got a response from the Resistance," he announced, a little out-of-breath. Francis spied Ivan's shadow in the doorway behind him, and briefly wondered what kind of excitement had caused Alfred's flushed face and lack of breath; what kind of physical exertion, that is. "Hey," Alfred spotted Yao, "you're up, man—uh, _wo_ man," he corrected, snickering.

"Don't be nervous," said Francis to Yao, deliberating misreading the Chinaman's antagonism. "We practised this, right? Oh, come on!" He smiled widely in feigned encouragement. "Now show me your best French maid look."

In reply, Yao pivoted gracefully on his toes like a ballerina and cast a suggestive glance back at his audience, his long, ebony locks falling gently over his smooth, tawny shoulder, left bare by the revealing uniform, his jet-black eyelashes lowered seductively, his ripe lips puckered—and very deliberately gave Francis the middle-finger.

"That's actually pretty good," Francis admitted.

"Good luck!"

* * *

Matthew awoke feeling much better than he had yesterday. He had slept soundly through the night and all of the day, and he was considerably more lucid now than he had been since being captured. The medicine that Gilbert had given him had worked to break his fever, and, aside from hunger and his throbbing leg, he felt perfectly fine. He sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes, and was met by a curious sight. The fearless Gestapo officer was rushing around the chamber in what could only be described as a tizzy. He seemed to be looking for something, since he began crawling on his hands-and-knees. Matthew noted the absence of adornment on his overcoat and suspected that it was his medal—the Iron Cross. The Canadian saw its striped ribbon peeking out from under a book on the bedside table and retrieved it. It was lighter than expected.

"Uh, Gilbert—?" He held it out helpfully.

"Oh, thank-you!" said Gilbert in relief.

Matthew noted the tension in Gilbert's posture and the forced cheerfulness in his smile as he took the medal and pinned it to his overcoat. It gleamed in the lowered lamplight. "Is something wrong?" he asked apprehensively.

"Oh, uh, no. Of course not. Don't even worry about it, _schatz_ ," Gilbert rambled as he smoothed back his hair one-handed; pocketing his shiny Lugar with the other. "I just have to leave for a while, but it's nothing to worry about. I won't be long. The General is arriving at the train station soon, and I have to be there to meet him."

"What time is it?" Matthew asked, glancing at the windowless walls in reflex.

"Nearly five in the morning," Gilbert replied, tugging on his boots. "You should go back to sleep."

Matthew ignored the hint, and asked: "When will you be back?"

"Soon, hopefully. It's stupid, really. The whole point of the General arriving before sunrise is to avoid making a scene, yet we all have to be at the station to greet him." He shook his head in disagreement. "It's a complete waste of my time."

"Is it dangerous?"

"No, no, it's just protocol."

"Why is the General in Nouvion?"

"He's here because of—" Gilbert stopped abruptly and looked at Matthew, who smiled innocently. "Nice try," he acknowledged, smirking at the Canadian.

Matthew laughed softly, which seemed to relax Gilbert.

The German was dressed from head-to-toe in black, which in contrast to his silver-white colouring made him look otherworldly. The wine-red eyes might have been intimidating, if they weren't soft in concern. As he approached the bedside, Gilbert's expression sobered, and he said:

"Listen, Matthew. I don't want you to worry, okay? Or panic. I'm going to lock you in here when I leave, but it's not because of you; it's because I don't want anyone else to come in. It's for your own safety," he clarified. "I'm the only person who has a key to this room and no one else is authorized to enter it without my permission, so you should be perfectly safe. I'll be back soon," he promised, "but until then, I need you to stay here. Eat, rest—do whatever you want, just stay in this room, okay?"

Matthew felt a fleeting note of indignation disappear when he looked into Gilbert's earnest eyes. "Okay," he promised. "I'll stay here."

Gilbert smiled in relief. In parting, he raised his gloved hand to touch Matthew; to pat his head, maybe? The Canadian didn't know, and he never found out. At the last moment, the German recoiled self-consciously and simply waved in farewell.

" _Auf wiedersehen_ , _schatz_ ," he said.

* * *

 **ENGLISH**

 **FIVE O'CLOCK AM**

It was dark and the quiet landscape was shrouded in a thick, low-hanging fog. Arthur's boots were soaked and his feet were cold. His body felt stiff. The sooner they destroyed the railroad tracks, the better. He hoped that he and his three co-conspirators could escape fast enough before the sky lit up like the Queen's bloody birthday. Suddenly, he tripped over a rock and crashed into Francis ahead of him, who stumbled. " _Ah_! Bloody-hell!" he growled.

"Artie, be quiet!" Alfred whispered in warning. "The Krauts are patrolling the area, don't let them hear you!"

Arthur felt Alfred's hand on his back, but he took little comfort in the gesture, since Alfred was the one toting the gin bottle full of nitroglycerin. (There had been a, uh, minor misunderstanding when Yao had first delivered it, but fortunately nobody had accidentally drank the explosive substance.) As the secretive party walked single-file—Francis, Arthur, Alfred, and Ivan—Arthur prayed that nothing else would go wrong, which included Alfred tripping in the dark and blowing them all to Kingdom Come.

When they reached a bend in the railroad tracks, they stopped. It was concealed by a grove of evergreens and gravity would give them an extra push as they sped down the shallow hilltop in retreat. "Be _very_ careful, Alfred," said Arthur as Alfred dislodged the gin bottle. He and Ivan knelt to rig the mechanism, while Arthur crept into the prickly undergrowth to keep watch. He took a small pair of binoculars from his pocket and peered into the foggy darkness at the train station, a tiny brick building with a long, wooden platform. There were several German officers—too many for Arthur's liking—standing on-ceremony to greet the passengers, who were disembarking the train's last arrival. The Englishman squinted, adjusting dials on the binoculars. Absently, he felt Francis crouch down beside him. "Francis," he said, distractedly calling the Frenchman by his given-name, "do you know that man?"

Francis cocked his head, but took the binoculars when Arthur handed them over. He peered speculatively for a minute, then flinched in recognition.

" _That's the General_ ," he replied wearily. Quickly he mimed the hierarchy. (He and Arthur were getting pretty good at playing charades.) " _What's he doing here in Nouvion_?"

"This is bad," Arthur said, crawling clumsily backwards. A pine branch swung overhead and whipped Francis in the face. "Oops, sorry!" In apology, Arthur reached up and wiped a line of blood off of Francis' smooth cheek, trying not to laugh.

" _I swear_ , _you're going to get me killed_ , _you insufferable Englishman_ ," he said indulgently, following Arthur.

When they emerged from the underbrush, covered in prickly evergreen-needles, they both paused.

" _Where's Alfred_?" Francis asked, noting his and Ivan's absence.

"Alfred!" Arthur called as loudly as he dared, searching frantically with his eyes. "Alfred fucking Jones, where the bloody-hell are you!"

Francis suddenly tapped Arthur's shoulder and pointed into the darkness. At first, Arthur saw nothing in the fog, but, squinting, he spotted Alfred's waving arm a fair distance away. "What the hell is he doing? Alfred!" he yelled, waving in reply. He tried to make his message urgent. "That's the General!" He pointed, making his gestures large like a stage actor's. If he wasn't so worried, he would have felt very foolish dancing about in the dark. "We've got to retreat and come back after he's gone!"

Alfred raised a hand to his ear, indicating that he hadn't heard. "What?" he called back, disconcertingly loud.

Arthur cupped his hands around his mouth to amplify his voice. "We've got to go!" he yelled.

"Go?"

"Yes, go!"

"Okay!" Alfred called, giving Arthur an overdramatic salute.

Arthur didn't have long to wonder why, however. Before he could react, Francis tackled him to the ground.

Then the railroad exploded.

* * *

 **GERMAN**

Ludwig's sky-blue eyes glowed with the reflection of fire. He stared open-mouthed at the explosion, watching pieces of fractured iron descend to earth like metal hailstones.

"Captain Beilschmidt!" the General's deep, cigarette-stained voice snarled.

It jolted Ludwig into action. He raced toward the fiery scene, a contingency of his finest soldiers in pursuit. _What in hell happened_? he wondered, drawing his rifle. His men fanned-out in a crescent formation, surrounding the area; the smoking wreckage of the railway tracks. _Oh_ , _fuck_. His keen gaze swept the landscape guardedly in search of enemies, preparing for a fight, but he didn't see anyone except for German patrols, who were flooding into the shallow crater at an alarming rate. _How the hell did the Allies get close enough to sabotage the railroad tracks_? he thought. According to intelligence, the closest Allied regiment was stuck on the coast. _Was it the_ _French Resistance_? _Was it the Communists_? _Oh_ , _please don't let it be—_

"Captain, we've got them!"

Arthur and Francis were both gasping and coughing as the Germans wrestled them into submission. Ludwig felt a vein in his forehead bulge. He could have strangled them both with his bare hands. _What the fuck are you doing here_? asked his smoldering gaze.

"Captain Beilschmidt, what are your orders, sir?"

"Uh, well, actually—"

"Excellent work, Captain," the General interrupted. He advanced with violent purpose, Gilbert loping like a dog at his heels. "You've captured the saboteurs."

"Uh, yes," Ludwig replied, glancing worriedly at Arthur and Francis. "It certainly looks that way, doesn't it?"

"Francis Bonnefoi, the café owner—?" said Gilbert, befuddled. Ludwig watched the lines ease on his brother's face as realization dawned. No doubt, he was (finally) connecting Matthew's disguise to Francis' café. _Better late than never_ , _Gil._ "It's your fault! You were in on it from the start!" Gilbert yelled in accusation; though, nobody knew exactly what he was accusing Francis of.

The General frowned. "In on what?" he asked, looking suspiciously between Gilbert and Ludwig.

"Plots!" Ludwig interjected. He threw a warning glare at Gilbert, who quieted. "Francis Bonnefoi is a member of the Résistance! He's in way over his head in dozens of crafty plots! He's the ringleader of the whole operation here in Nouvion!" he lied in self-preservation.

"Is this true?" asked the General.

Francis' glare was ice-cold. But he wasn't directing it at the Germans. He was looking sideways at Arthur. " _I hate you so much right now_ ," he said in low-voiced French.

Arthur, at least, had the decency to look sheepish.

"What did he say?" asked the monolingual General impatiently.

"It's a, uh... confession, obviously," said Gilbert, taking charge. Squaring his tense posture authoritatively, he snapped his gloved fingers. "Arrest this French fiend and his..." It was then that he seemed to recognize Arthur as the Frenchman's green-eyed lover from the café, and his pale face reddened in fury. He disliked being tricked. "Take them both away!" he snarled vindictively.

As the two Allies were tugged roughly to their feet and paraded off, Ludwig's mind began to consider his own precarious position. If Francis was investigated, the General—and Gestapo—would find the Italian portrait; and if that fickle Frenchman confessed that it belonged to Ludwig... If they put two-and-two together and realized that it's true owner was Feliciano... _Oh_ , _fuck_ , he thought in resignation, _now I have to rescue them_. He just didn't have a clue about how to do it, since he had rashly named Francis as a leader of the French Resistance. No matter how much he pleaded and denied the accusations, the General was not going to let him go with a scolding slap on the wrist. _At least it's only two of them_ , he thought, considering it a silver-lining. _The other Allies can help me_ —

"Captain Beilschmidt!" called one of his officers sharply. He and a dozen of his men were approaching from a field beyond the hilltop. "We caught two more conspirators, sir!" he said proudly, pointing to two unhappy captives.

It was Alfred and Ivan.

Ludwig hung his head in defeat.

* * *

 **FRENCH**

 **THE NEXT DAY**

Don't touch me," said Francis grumpily.

Arthur removed his tentative hand from the Frenchman's shoulder and stepped away, looking guilty.

 _Good_ , Francis thought spitefully. _This is all his fault_.

The holding-cell was small. Francis sat on the cold, stone floor against the wall, his arms crossed indignantly, his legs crossed to avoid collision with Alfred, who's long body was sprawled across the floor, his head resting heavily on Ivan's thigh. The Russian looked ghostly-pale, shadowed with fatigue and lingering illness. He glared coldly ahead, like a caged beast awaiting a victim to strike. Francis only hoped he waited to release his frustration on the Germans and not on he or Alfred—though Alfred was likely protected by Ivan's apparent infatuation. (He could devour Arthur, for all Francis' cared just then.)

"This is all your fault," he deadpanned for the umpteenth time. He didn't look at Arthur, but the Englishman knew he was being blamed.

" _I said I was sorry_ ," Arthur replied, losing patience.

"I wouldn't even be here if it wasn't for you!" Francis spat angrily. "You showed up uninvited and invaded my café; dragged me into a plot; made me an accomplice to the Résistance Française; brought the fucking Gestapo to my door; and nearly got me blown-up! Now I'm sitting in a fucking cell at the German headquarters awaiting a death-sentence, and it's entirely your fault, Arthur!"

" _I'm sorry_!" Arthur yelled. " _I fucked-up_ , _okay_? _But I didn't hear you complaining when you were prancing about singing Vive la fucking France_!"

Francis leapt to his feet. "You ungrateful English-dog!" he snarled, grabbing Arthur's shirt-front.

" _Unhand me_ , _you filthy French-frog_!"

" _Knock it off_!" Alfred sat bolt upright, blue eyes blazing in disapproval. " _This isn't helping_ ," he scolded them.

Reluctantly, Francis released Arthur and they silently retreated to opposite sides of the small holding-cell.

Suddenly, a soft clapping echoed in the empty underground chamber. "Bravo," said Yao, holding his hands deliberately aloft in applause.

The Chinaman's spontaneous appearance caused an uproar as the captives surged toward the bars. "Yao?" Francis gasped in disbelief. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm here to read you your last rites, Francis Bonnefoi," he smirked, indicating his outfit with a sweep of the hand. Today he was dressed in the long, sober robes of a priest. "And to give you this," he added. Unceremoniously, he hitched-up the black robe and unbound the hacksaw strapped to the inside of his leg. He passed it to Ivan through the bars. "Just in case Captain Beilschmidt can't obtain your release papers."

" _You expect us to saw our way out_?" Ivan asked, unimpressed. " _Gee_ , _Yao_ , _why don't you just give us each a spoon_?" he mocked, at the same time Arthur said:

" _Ludwig is having us released_?"

" _He's working on it_ ," Yao answered, ignoring Ivan's cheek. He shrugged indifferently and pushed back his baggy sleeves in preparation. " _Now_ , _play along_ ," he told them as a couple of German guards entered the chamber.

The captives knelt and stayed quiet as Yao pretended to bless them, each man appearing to contemplate his imminent doom. Ivan went as far as to bow his pale head and clasp his hands in order to hide the hacksaw against his chest. Alfred threw in an overdramatic: " _Oh_ , _why_ , _God_? _Why_!" before Arthur elbowed him to be silent. When he was done speaking, Yao mimed the sign of the cross and then allowed the Germans to escort him out, but not before he threw a glance over-the-shoulder at his allies in support.

Francis sunk back down, overwhelmed by a sudden influx of hope. _Ludwig is trying to rescue us_ —? It was an oddly heartwarming thought. Then again, it was probably less a selfless good deed and more to the German's personal benefit. _Well_ , _whatever_ , Francis relaxed, closing his eyes (avoiding contact with Arthur). _As long as it gets me out of here alive_ , _I don't even care._

* * *

 **GERMAN**

As the twilight bell rang out, Arthur, Alfred, and Ivan were all released from German custody.

" _Wait_ , _what about me_?" Francis asked when Ludwig placed a hand on his chest to prevent him from leaving. He glanced from Ludwig to Feliciano in misunderstanding. " _Capitaine Beilschmidt_?" he said hopefully, sapphire-eyes wide in fear. Ludwig actually felt bad for him.

"Feliciano, tell him," he said, taking pity on the panicking Frenchman.

" _Unfortunately_ ," Feliciano smiled at Francis, " _Capitano Beilschmidt was unable to get you pardoned due to your intimate connection to_ _the_ _Résistance Française_."

" _But I'm not_!" Francis argued. " _You know I'm not_! _You're the ones who lied to the General_ , _not me_!"

"It was a necessary lie," Ludwig rebutted diplomatically. "If I hadn't lied to the General, then all of us would be facing a firing-squad tonight. This way, we can blame the whole railroad affair"—he shot an angry look at the three awaiting Allies—"on the French Résistance. We just need someone to represent the Résistance so that the General can follow protocol and execute the perpetrator."

" _Not someone_ , _me_ ," said Francis unhappily." _I'm a scapegoat_."

"Yes, but a necessary one. Feliciano, tell him."

" _It's going to be okay_ , _Francis_ ," Feliciano soothed kindly. " _Actually_ , _it's going to be even better than before, because with the_ _Résistance Française_ _leader_ ' _dead_ '," he made little air-quotes, " _the General will have no reason to suspect_ La Fleur-de-lis _of any treacherous activity_ , _and he'll leave Nouvion_ _thinking that he's solved the problem._ _The café will be a safe place once again. Isn't that a good thing_?"

" _Not if I'm too dead to enjoy it_ ," Francis countered, glowering.

" _But you won't be_ ," Feliciano explained. " _Capitano Beilschmidt and I are going to replace the firing-squad's bullets with wooden ones. They'll burn up before they even hit you_ — _provided they're standing more than ten feet away from you_ ," he added in a rush.

" _And if they're standing closer_?"

Feliciano shrugged. " _It still won't kill you_ , _but it'll hurt like a bitch_."

Francis heaved an overdramatic sigh in reluctant resignation. He knew he didn't have a choice. Not if he wanted to survive. " _Wonderful_ ," he smiled with venomous charm. " _Shall we proceed with my untimely demise then_?"

* * *

 **ENGLISH**

Francis' elegant figure was awash of red-gold in the vibrant sunset. He looked like discredited nobility being led to the scaffold—except that it was a simple brick-wall instead of a scaffold; and a military firing-squad instead of a hangman. _Huh_ , _executions used to be so much more elegant_ , Arthur thought absently, watching from the gathered crowd. _Whatever happened to the grandeur_? _The speeches—any last words_? He smiled, then remembered who's execution was being staged and he felt his stomach twist into a knot. Francis Bonnefoi was not someone whom Arthur would have usually cared about; (phenomenal sex aside) he was a fickle, self-serving, incorrigible Frenchman. And yet... As Francis was paraded to the wall and left to face the guns alone, Arthur felt a wave of sudden tenderness for him. And fear. It had never been his intent to hurt Francis, indirectly or not. Arthur saw his own fear reflected in Francis' beautiful blues. Despite Ludwig's promise, the Frenchman looked scared. His face was stark-white as he stared wide-eyed at the rifle-barrels, trying to remain as dignified as possible, but failing to still his trembling hands. In that moment, Arthur had the foolish notion of going to him and— _What_? He was hardly going to kiss Francis here in front of everyone. Instead, he folded his hands to quell his own fears and stared straight ahead, feigning indifference.

"He's going to be okay, isn't he, Artie?" Alfred whispered.

Arthur refrained from looking at him. The American's voice was hoarse in uncertainty. Arthur didn't want to turn and see fear in his cornflower-blue eyes, too. "Yes, he's going to be fine," he replied with more confidence than he felt. He wanted to believe it, but he disliked putting his trust in the Germans; the enemy. What was stopping Ludwig from going back on his promise? Nothing. They were completely helpless to save themselves—and Arthur hated it. He had already lost Matthew. He didn't want to lose Francis, too.

" _Feliciano_ ," said Ludwig in German. He handed the Italian two identical cardboard boxes. " _This one is full of lead bullets_ ; _this one is full of wooden bullets._ " He shook each box in example." _Make sure the firing-squad uses the wooden bullets. Keep the other box out of sight._ "

" _Yes_ , _sir_ ," said Feliciano, taking the boxes.

Arthur watched Feliciano walk purposefully to the officer in charge, but before he could deliver the wooden bullets, his path was intercepted.

" _I'll take that_ ," said Gilbert, plucking both boxes indelicately from Feliciano's hands. The Italian froze like a spooked fawn. He tried to protest, but a look from the Gestapo silenced him. " _Thank-you_ ," he said to the wide-eyed boy in dismissal.

Arthur didn't immediately comprehend the danger, until he saw Feliciano's panicked expression mirrored on Ludwig's stoic face.

Behind them, Yao whispered: "Oh, fuck."

" _Oh_ , _Germany_ ," Feliciano begged, stricken with anxiety, " _what do I do_?"

Ludwig swallowed visibly and discretely took Feliciano's hand in comfort. " _Nothing_ , _schatz_ ," he said calmly, keeping his eyes trained on Gilbert, who was distributing bullets to each of the rifle-bearers. It was impossible to tell which box he was taking the bullets from, though.

" _What if they use the wrong bullets_?" Feliciano worried.

Ludwig licked his lips mechanically, buying time. " _Then we find somewhere else to eat lunch_ ," he answered.

Arthur listened intently to the hushed conversation, wishing that he spoke German. It might have explained the nervous looks that Ludwig and Feliciano kept exchanging. Perhaps they were just as uneasy about the Gestapo's unexpected arrival as Arthur was. Gilbert wore an uncharacteristically transparent expression as he emptied the box of bullets. He looked self-satisfied, like someone about to take revenge for an insult. Suddenly, Arthur was reminded of Matthew's predicament and felt much less comfortable with the boy's current living arrangements.

 _It'll only be for a little while longer_ , he thought, trying to calm his racing heart. _As soon as this business with the General is finished_ , _rescuing Matthew and getting he and Alfred out of here will go back to being my priority_.

" _Ready_!"

The clicking of a dozen rifles pulled Arthur's thoughts back to the present. He saw Francis take a deep breath in preparation.

" _Fire_!" ordered Gilbert mercilessly.

The sound was deafening. The firing-squad shot with machine-like efficiency and the result was a barrage of noise and thick grey smoke. Arthur flinched and snapped his eyes shut in reflex. Beside him, Feliciano cried-out in alarm. Behind him, Yao cursed impulsively in Chinese. Alfred's voice carried the loudest, though. Angrily, he yelled: "What the fuck, you lying, fucking Kraut!" If not for Ivan, he would have charged at Ludwig, but the Russian held him back. Nobody, however, held Arthur back. He was running before he even realized it, dashing recklessly toward Francis' crumpled figure. He had gone down hard on-impact. The English captain dodged the retreating firing-squad, and the Gestapo and the General, who were taking their leave, satisfied by the squad's fatal result. Arthur coughed on the gun-smoke and waved out his hand, groping blindly.

"Francis? Francis!" he said, falling to his knees beside the Frenchman's limp figure. "Oh, no—no, no, no," he chanted as he felt for a pulse. He barely noticed the crowd that gathered around them, anxiously awaiting to know if the Frenchman lived or not. "Please be alive," Arthur whispered frantically. He was horrified by the flood of tears that filled his eyes; horrified when one fell onto the Frenchman's pale face. "Please, frog-eater. I'm sorry," he said, cupping the cold, stubbled cheek. "I'm sorry I dragged you into this. I'm so sorry. Really, I am. I never meant for this to happen to you. Francis..." He clenched his fists and bowed his head, jaw locked, and eyes squeezed shut to prevent a flood of tears. "I'm so sorry. This is all my fault."

" _There had better be an apology somewhere in that speech_."

Arthur's eyes flew open. Francis' sapphire-blues smiled back.

For a second, Arthur simply stared at the Frenchman in utter bewilderment, fury and relief both fighting for dominance. He wanted to punch him in the mouth. He wanted to kiss him on the mouth. In the end, he impulsively did both. "You—you—you fucking frog!" he yelled, grabbing a fistful of the Frenchman's shirt. He slapped Francis in frustration; then leant down and roughly seized his dehydrated lips. It happened too fast for Francis to respond to—which was probably for the best, considering their audience.

" _Ow-aroo_!" Alfred wolf-howled in jest.

"Fuck off, Yankee!" Arthur snarled, his hands still coiled tightly in Francis' filthy shirt. They were trembling.

Francis blinked incomprehensibly for a moment, blindsided, before his lips curled into a receptive smile of happy disbelief. Arthur disliked it. The way Francis was looking at him made him blush in embarrassment, but he let the blue-eyed man unclench his trembling fists and take his hand, using it as leverage. He squeezed gently, conveying a private message as Arthur pulled him slowly into an upright position, bracing a hand on the Frenchman's back when he grimaced in pain. So close, Arthur could see where the wooden bullets had struck his chest, leaving angry red welts behind.

" _Well_ —?" said Ludwig uncertainly. He cleared his throat and formally asked: " _How do you feel_ , _Bonnefoi_?"

Despite it being Feliciano who translated the question, it was Ludwig whom Francis glared at.

" _Ten feet my motherfucking ass_ ," he said.


End file.
